For Love of a Bedouin Maid

Hour succeeded hour, midnight came and went; and in the East the first gray streaks of dawn appeared, but still Napoleon maintained his monotonous tramp before his tent, pausing occasionally to listen.

At last, angry and impatient, he left his post and started with rapid strides to walk towards the advanced Guard.

Few men unused to the intricacies of the camp, covering at it did, several square miles, could have found their way thither without a guide, but Napoleon walked on unerringly. He seemed to know every inch of the ground.

At last, he paused in his solitary tramp, and halted, for a few moments, by a belt of trees, the silver-blue waters of the Danube flowing swiftly almost at his feet.

A short way down the river was a picket stationed to guard a small footbridge, and he could see the soldiers sitting by the fire, and, borne to him by the freshening breeze, he could hear their merry peals of laughter and occasional exclamations, called forth by some amusing story. He was amazed at their lightheartedness, when they knew that a battle was impending, and angered at the laxity with which their guard was kept. He stamped his foot, and in his face there came a look that boded ill for the commander of the picket.

"Fools!" he muttered. "Is it thus they keep their watch! Where is their officer?"

And the Emperor was just starting towards the group to learn the answer to his question, when something occurred that roused the laughing, chattering picket and brought them to their feet.

A horseman dashed across the narrow bridge. He was riding for his life, which each moment seemed to place in greater jeopardy, for in hot pursuit of him were some thirty Austrians. Mounted on white horses and with their white uniforms, they looked in the dim light like specters. They were gaining rapidly on the flying man, for his horse was almost done, and theirs seemed fresh enough.

The Emperor caught sight of what was going on, and made his way quickly to the picket. Meanwhile, all was bustle with them. The men had sprung to their feet and formed themselves into some sort of order to receive the enemy, whom they much outnumbered.

Meantime, the fugitive kept advancing, urging, by whip and spur, his jaded steed to greater efforts. Safety seemed almost in his grasp, and, encouraged by the presence of his compatriots, he waved his hand aloft, and shouted, "France and the Emperor!"

The picket cheered in response, and, with cries of "Vive l'Empereur," rushed to meet their foe. Then both sides went at it pell mell; shots were fired, but these soon ceased when the combatants got to close quarters; then it became a hand to hand struggle between swords and bayonets, and cuts and thrusts were freely exchanged, to the accompaniment of shouts and cheers from those who were unhurt, and groans from the wounded and the dying. Other Austrians swam their horses across the river to the assistance of their comrades, and, for the moment, despite the stubborn resistance of the French, who yielded only inch by inch, victory inclined to the attacking side. But soon reinforcements poured in on the French side, and the engagement raged more furiously than ever. For a short space the outpost seemed in danger, for Austrian troops on the other side of the river were collecting and hurrying across. But at this juncture, just when affairs were looking critical for Napoleon's men, some guns from the heights in possession of the French opened fire, sweeping the plains across the Danube. The hailstorm of grape and canister was murderous, and, there being no shelter for them, the Austrians first wavered and then incontinently took to flight. The small body on this side of the river were thus isolated, and could make no further stand against the dash and élan of the French. So the retreat was sounded and the survivors of them galloped across the bridge, followed by a storm of musket shots from the victorious enemy, that brought many a white uniform to the dust. Few of them, indeed, regained their comrades. The whole affair had occupied but a few minutes, and Napoleon, who had mounted a trooper's horse, and ridden up to the picket at the outset, had sat watching it immovably throughout.

When all was over, the flying horseman, who had so narrowly escaped capture, gained his side. Then, reining in his panting charger, he saluted.

"Whence come you, Sir," asked the Emperor sternly.

"From France, Sire, with despatches, marked immediate, from the Empress," was the prompt reply.

"Follow me to my tent, if your horse can carry you so far. Then I will see that the Empress's communication receives attention." And, to suit his pace to the new-comer's, he moved on at a walk, the other in his wake.

Arrived at the tent, Napoleon woke his secretary; he wanted him to write his answer to Josephine's despatch.

St. Just, for he was the courier who had so nearly lost his life, had not expected to find another person present, and felt embarrassed. Knowing the subject of the Empress's communication, he wished to have his interview with the Emperor alone. He hesitated for a moment, and then said deprecatingly:—"The Empress strictly charged me, Sire, to give you these papers when you were alone."

At the same time he held out the packet. Surprise and anger at the speaker's boldness in daring to criticise his actions, showed on Napoleon's face.

"My secretary does not count," he answered sharply.

"In the Empress's eyes I think he does, Sire," rejoined St. Just, astonished, and at the same time, fearful at his own temerity.

There was silence for a few moments, and the Emperor gave him a look that made him tremble. He seemed on the point of letting his passion have its fling; but suddenly his expression changed, and he said deliberately, "The Empress's wishes are my commands." Then to the secretary, "Leave us."

So soon as the secretary had departed, the Emperor snatched the packet from St. Just and then, for the first time, became aware of his identity. He started in surprise, for he had believed that his former aide-de-camp was dead—killed at Trafalgar, as it had been reported.

"Hah!" he exclaimed. "You, again! Then you were not hanged by that cursed English Admiral. What means this continual game of hide and seek? You seem to be gifted with the cat's tenacity of life. But I will inquire into your affairs anon. At present Her Majesty's despatch demands my notice."

He cut the silken cord that bound the papers, seated himself at a table and opened them out before him; then conned them carefully. Meanwhile, St. Just stood motionless and silent; but his brain was active; there was much to move it; he realized that he was in deadly peril, and knew that his life depended on the Emperor's mood.

Presently the Emperor started to his feet and, taking no notice of St. Just, went to a despatch box in the corner, and from it took a document. This also he read carefully, comparing it with some of the papers St. Just had brought. He threw it down upon the table with an angry "Pish!" Then he called out sharply, "Guard!"

There was a hurried movement outside the tent; then a file of soldiers came in view and drew up, motionless as statues, before the opening.

The Emperor, without moving from the table, addressed the sergeant. "Go to my secretary's tent and tell the officer who brought the last despatch to attend me instantly. Should he not be there, he must be sought until you find him."

The sergeant saluted and withdrew.

Then Napoleon went again to the despatch box; this time he took from it two miniatures.

At the one he looked at first, his face took on an expression of mingled affection and regret. It was the counterfeit presentment of the Empress Josephine, taken many years before; and the painter had been happy in his conception, for, though he had not actually sacrificed truth to flattery in any single feature, yet he had, somehow, so idealized the whole, as to depict a marvelously lovely face, that certainly surpassed in fascination the original. She seemed to be just opening her mouth to speak; one could almost see the lips in motion; and the eyes and every feature were instinct with the vivacity which was her greatest charm.

The Emperor gazed at it for a minute. Then, "No, no," he muttered; "it is useless." He sighed, then laid the miniature, lovingly and reluctantly, as it seemed, upon the table.

Then he took up the other, and this also he subjected to a long and earnest scrutiny. It was the portrait of a much younger woman—a mere girl in fact—with far less pretentions to feminine attractions than had Josephine. This was the Archduchess Marie Louise, the daughter of Napoleon's most stubborn foe: but, for all that, chosen by the great conquerer to be his wife, so soon as he should have freed himself from his present matrimonial claims.

With fear and trembling, and a sickening feeling at his heart, St. Just stood watching every movement, and scanning every feature of Napoleon; but to the mood of the man within, the stern, impassive countenance gave no clue. Hope was not wholly dead in St. Just, but despair predominated.

A quick, military step was heard approaching, and, immediately afterwards, an officer entered the tent, first pausing at the entrance to salute the Emperor.

A glance sufficed to show St. Just that his journey had been fruitless. The dread, muttered words "Too late" penetrated to his brain, and all the heart went out of him. The newcomer was Colonel Tremeau, the officer he had met a few days before in the garden at St. Cloud. He guessed that his conversation with the Empress had been overheard. He must have traveled post haste in order to outstrip him—and he had succeeded.

Napoleon noted the surprise and terror of St. Just, and a cruel smile began to flit about his face—the smile that did not betoken approval of the person whom it felt, but was, rather, devilish, and calculated to fill the stoutest heart with dread.

"You know this gentleman, Mons. St. Just," he said, and his tone was cold and calm. "You should have ridden faster. You did not know it was a race. Your rival came in first. Your information was forestalled; your plot has failed."

St. Just was almost dumbfounded; words seemed to fail him; he had no time to think; still he must say something. Pale as death and not knowing what he did say, he stammered:

"Sire, permit me a word, one word I beseech you,"

"Say on, but make your words as few as possible."

"There is no plot, Sire," resumed the luckless emissary; "I have ridden here without resting by the way, at the Empress's express commands, to convey to you intelligence that Her Majesty thought vital to France and you. The papers that came into her hands and that she charged me to deliver to your Majesty, seemed to show that our country is in danger. England is on the point of joining hands with Russia; all Europe is rising secretly against you. Your armies are retreating everywhere in Spain.

"You hold in your hand, Sire, the proofs of the duplicity and worse, of Talleyrand and Fouché. Think you that they would wish to part you from the Empress, save for their own ends?"

He paused, appalled at his own audacity.

"By Heavens, Sir," the Emperor stormed, and he sprang to his feet, and stamped with rage, "you presume too far. I will submit no longer to your insolence. I will have you shot. Colonel Tremeau, arrest that man."

Colonel Tremeau made a step forward to obey the Emperor's command, but paused when the other raised his hand and addressed Napoleon.

"Pause one moment, Sire," he said, "and consider what you would do. I have the Empress's safe conduct. Surely you would not stain your honor as a soldier and a man by laying a finger on a peaceful envoy."

Then, to do him justice, more concerned for Josephine than for himself, distracted at the thought of her pain at receiving no reply to her appeal, and at the suspicion that he had betrayed her, he went down on one knee before Napoleon, and besought him to weigh carefully the serious news in the despatches. "Arrest me, Sire," he concluded; "kill me, if you will; but save the Empress and yourself."

"Possibly the Empress would rather save her paramour," interjected Colonel Tremeau sneeringly.

At this, Napoleon turned round suddenly to the last speaker, his face convulsed with rage, and from his eyes fire seemed to flash.

"What mean you, Sir?" he shouted. "Explain your vile innuendo instantly, or you, too, shall be arrested."

Thus challenged, Tremeau told of St. Just's midnight visit to St. Cloud and of what he had overheard there. St. Just listened to him in silence, and, listening, thought it was all over with him. He could not but admit to himself that Tremeau stated fairly what had taken place. He showed no animus, spoke calmly and dispassionately, and put no false color on the truth. Also it became plain that Tremeau had not heard all; he must have gone before the interview with Josephine was over. Poor though it was, this was some slight consolation.

When the officer had finished his account, at first the Emperor said nothing. He took the miniature of Josephine from the table and threw it on the ground; then stamped upon it, grinding it to fragments under his heel. Then, his features working unceasingly and his hands clenching and unclenching in his fury, he called out, "Guard!"

The file appeared with their sergeant at their head. He gathered up the despatches and crumpled them together; then passed them to the sergeant. "Burn these papers at once. Stay, I will see you do it."

He strode rapidly outside the tent to a camp fire a few yards off; then flung the papers into it. St. Just had stepped outside the tent and been a silent watcher of the scene. The Emperor strode up to him. "Go, Sir, to the Empress," he said sternly, "and tell her what you have seen. That is my answer to her letter and enclosures. As for you," and he looked St. Just contemptuously from head to foot, "I give Her Majesty credit for better taste, than to place on Colonel Tremeau's words the construction they might bear. You have mistaken condescension for a sentiment that implies equality. The lion's consort mates only with her kind, and could find no attraction in a cur."

At this moment an officer of high rank galloped up, his charger flecked with foam; he drew rein when he reached Napoleon.

"The Austrians are advancing, Sire,"—he brought the words out breathlessly—"and the men are impatient to attack." The change in the Emperor's face was almost magical; the rage that had contorted it had vanished like a flash, at the officer's first words, and now there was a glow of pleasure on it; the impassiveness was gone, and the light of anticipated victory was in his eye. He forgot the man who had so raised his ire, and even Josephine.

"This is welcome news," he answered joyously; "we will give them a lesson for their rashness. Return, Marshal, instantly, and let the advance be sounded. I will be with you before they get to work." Then he turned to Colonel Tremeau. "Leave me now, Sir, I will see you after the battle. At present I would be alone."

The Marshal rode away and Tremeau withdrew.

Napoleon re-entered his tent, and St. Just, from the outside, saw him bring the portrait of the Austrian Arch-duchess to his lips, while the Frenchwoman's lay shattered at his feet.

Then Josephine's envoy moved away. He was sick at heart, chafing at Napoleon's contemptuous words, and despondent at the utter failure of his mission. How he should break the news to Josephine, he scarce durst think.

Meanwhile, the Emperor rode forth to beat the Austrians. History tell us how, throughout that long and hard fought day, wherever the fight was thickest and the danger greatest, he was to be found. Perchance, he hoped that some stray bullet would still that conscience that was vainly telling him that what he meditated against Josephine was a hideous crime.

CHAPTER V

Nearly five months had passed since the battle of Wagram had been fought and won; since the momentous interview between the Emperor and St. Just that had resulted so disastrously for Josephine. Then it had been warm, sunny June, the sky one sheet of azure; now it was the last day in November, when all was chill and dreary, and a dark pall hung over everything. It was a day on which even a Mark Tapley would have found it hard to preserve his spirits.

The action of the drama had been shifted from Austria to France, and the scene on which the curtain was now to rise was the Palace of Fontainebleau.

Here, on the evening of the aforesaid day in November, Josephine, still Empress, but not long to be, was pacing, restlessly and with agitated mien, the floor of her private apartment. She was still beautiful, but the sadness of her face, and the look almost of terror in it were painful to behold. Just so might have looked Mary, Queen of Scots, on her way to execution. She was royally attired, and the aid of every feminine art had been invoked to enhance the many charms she had, and to create the few she lacked. A diamond tiara sparkled on her head, and over her shoulders, to protect them from the draughts, was thrown a violet velvet mantle studded with the imperial bees, the Emperor affected.

The infinite pains to make herself attractive, had been taken for him, for he was momentarily expected. He had arrived some hours before from Paris, but they had not yet met.

Prepared by St. Just, as she had been, for the last three months for the coming interview—he had informed her of the failure of his errand to her husband—now that the moment for it was close at hand, she was filled with trepidation; and, though she had been anxiously looking forward to it with increasing hope, she would now have postponed it, if she could. She had remarked but now, on meeting some of the ministers returning from an audience with the Emperor, how curt had been their salutations, how they had hurried away from her after the barest ceremonious courtesy, as though fearing to be questioned by her; how even the officers of her own household looked furtively at her, and the people outside the palace regarded her with coldness, as though guessing that her reign was almost at an end. Even in her Maids of Honor she thought she saw a change; they seemed less respectful, less observant of the Court etiquette, that Napoleon made de rigueur; more familiar in their manner. Poor woman, no wonder she was sad; every friend seemed to have deserted her; save only St. Just, who was now a Captain of her Guard, and on his fidelity she knew she could rely; but then he was flattered by her marked notice of him, and nursed a sort of languid passion for her.

Suddenly the unhappy woman paused in her pacings to and fro, and started, and her heart throbbed painfully. A firm, sharp step, that she and those about her recognized, could be heard without in the antechamber and rapidly approaching. At once, the ladies rose and placed themselves in an attitude of respectful reverence, in which some fear was mingled. He was not given to control his sentiments, and his courtiers never knew in what mood he might be found.

The door flew open and the Emperor entered. He looked worried and confused. Like the Empress, he was in evening dress. The ladies all bent low before him.

Acknowledging their obeisance with the slightest movement of his head, he passed on towards Josephine.

The moment she had first hoped for, and then dreaded, had arrived. With a mighty effort she strove to close the door upon her fear and to assume a gladness she was far from feeling.

She sprang towards him with a joyous cry, and stretched out her arms to him, but her face was very pale, and there was a hunted expression in her eyes; she was trembling violently. All this Napoleon noted and a frown gathered on his brow. But for this, he would have responded in the same spirit to her tones and gesture. As it was, his greeting was chill and formal, and, the moment it was performed, he added in a cold, harsh tone:

"Come, Josephine, let us walk together in the corridor before dinner."

Filled with a nameless dread, and without a word, the Empress took his arm, and they passed from the apartment, the ladies meanwhile throwing expressive glances at each other. Threading the suite of rooms, they reached the gallery de François Premier. The long corridor, unlighted as it was, looked weird and uncanny in the twilight, and presented an almost endless vista. Its gloom and silence sent a shiver through the Empress; its aspect was so different from what it was when she had seen it last, illumined with thousands of wax candles and filled with courtiers in brilliant uniforms and ladies in elaborate toilettes; the walls echoing with the hum of sprightly conversation, broken every now and then by the rippling laugh of some fair woman. Now, not a sound, but their own footfalls, could be heard. Even the sculptured salamanders seemed to grin maliciously, and the figures on the tapestried walls to frown on her. With a shudder and involuntarily, she tightened her grasp upon her husband's arm.

The Emperor, on his part, strolled on almost joyously, but such joy as was in him was assumed. It was more a sense of satisfaction that an unpleasant business would soon be done with. Try as he might, he could not persuade himself that what he meditated was well. He saw the cruelty of the act to her; yet his Ministers desired it; said it would consolidate his power; that for him to found a dynasty would be good for France. But even now his heart was torn by the emotions that warred within.

At last, involuntarily, a cry of pity broke from him, "My poor Josephine," and he looked down upon her pityingly. She started with alarm; it was coming, what she feared.

"Napoleon," she gasped timidly, "What is it, and why do you look so strangely at me?" She led, almost dragged him, to a seat in a window that looked out upon a quaint old-fashioned garden, in which were yew trees pruned into formal and fantastic shapes, many of which, in the gathering darkness, looked like human figures standing motionless, surrounded by huge animals all still as death.

"Tell your Josephine what troubles you," she resumed in pleading tones, when they were seated. "Forget for one short hour the cares of State, and let us be all in all to one another."

Nervously he clasped her hand in his, and, with eyes cast down upon the ground in very shame at the base part he was about to play, he strove to speak. But his words did not come willingly.

"How—how can I tell you," he began; "but I must, though it cuts me to the heart. Josephine! my dear Josephine! You know how I have loved you!.... To you, to you alone, I owe the only moments of happiness I have tasted in this world. But, Josephine, my destiny is not to be controlled by my desire. My dearest affections must yield to the interests of France. They—the Ministers wish me to separate from you. They—they say that it is necessary for the welfare of France that I should have an heir to follow me in the Empire I have founded. They tell me I must marry again." His voice had sunk lower and lower, till the last words had become all but inaudible.

"And who are they," she cried impetuously, "that dare to tell the conqueror of Egypt, of Italy, of Austria; the ruler of the foremost country in the world, that he must do anything?" Then, changing her tone to one of supplication, she continued. "You talk of marrying again; do I not already enjoy few enough of a wife's privileges, that you should think of putting me away? You do not give me the opportunity of wearying you, for you are so much away on your numerous campaigns. I do not complain, for what is a woman in comparison to affairs of State; but I feel your frequent absences sorely.

"Oh! Napoleon, think how we have loved each other; recall the days of old when you were troubled, and came to Josephine for sympathy and consolation."

She rose to her feet and faced him. "You have raised me to an exalted station, to a position that any woman would be proud of; it is a great thing to be an Empress; doubtless I am the envy of millions of my sex! But it is not the Emperor, it is Napoleon whom I love. These trappings are as naught to me, without your love; this imperial mantle, I cast it from me; this sparkling bauble, I tear it from my brow;" and, suiting her action to her words, she tossed the mantle from her shoulders and dashed her tiara on the ground.

"Sire, I come to you, all powerful, as you now are; I come to you, a suppliant, as you once came to me." She cast herself upon her knees before him. "Oh! do not mock me with the State; what right has it to intervene between two loving hearts, to abrogate God's ordinances? Oh! Napoleon, say you love me." She grovelled at his feet and clasped her arms around his knees; she could scarce proceed for the tears that were streaming down her face and the sobs that she could not repress. "Oh! be Emperor in deed as well as name," she went on in broken accents. "Why should you vex yourself about a son to follow you as Emperor and King, you who can make Emperors and Kings at will? And for the State, you are the State, as Louis le Grand in his time proudly said he was."