Moscow: A Story of the French Invasion of 1812

"Our Emperor goes just as far as his word, Vera," said Henri. "Do not deceive yourself. If Napoleon has said that he will march to Moscow, to Moscow he will march, and neither man nor devil shall prevent him."

"You leave God out of the question," Vera raved; "but He, too, must be reckoned with, even by a Napoleon. Be sure, Henri, that this wicked campaign will not be permitted to prosper. You shall see."

"Au revoir, ma belle," laughed Henri. "We shall meet in Moscow."

"I would rather never see you again, cousin, than meet you there," cried Vera; "and that is truth!"

"What, and the same of Paul de Tourelle?" said Henri, still laughing; "fie, Vera, you show yourself in new colours to-day!"

Vera flushed crimson and turned away. She took no notice of the allusion to Paul, but a moment later she answered the latter part of Henri's banter.

"If I show myself in new colours it is the more shame for me. These are the colours I should always have worn; to-day, at least, if never before, I am all a Russian; I am none the less so because I happen to have French cousins. Henceforth, I shall be ashamed to own that there are folks of my flesh and blood who are content to serve this tyrant."

"I think none the worse of you for your patriotism," said Henri good-naturedly, seeing that the girl was much distressed. "But neither should you think ill of us who are also patriots from the other side of the hedge. Political aspects depend upon the point of view. You are excited. You will see all this differently when you think matters over in cold blood."

If Vera had been less miserable she would scarcely have spoken to Henri as she did, but Henri was a good-natured person and made allowances. He guessed the mingled emotions stirring in Vera's heart at this moment, for Vera had always been a good Russian, taking the part of her countrymen in the many bantering arguments in which the family frequently indulged at the expense of Russian bears, autocrats, barbarous moujiks, knouts, serfs and kindred matters. In such arguments Vera had often, to the delight of Henri and her other cousins, almost lost herself in indignant defence of her countrymen. Now, he knew, great fires of patriotic fervour must be ablaze within her, since the picture before her mind's eye was not that of an equal war in which either side might gain the advantage, but of a helpless, or semi-helpless, State, over which stood the gigantic figure of conquering Napoleon, a drawn sword in his hand, ready to shed the life-blood of her beloved nation. And in addition to this trouble, and aggravating it twofold, Henri fully believed, there was Paul.

Henri had quite made up his mind, much to his own gratification, for he was fond of his cousin and Paul was his chief friend, that these two were in love with one another. He had endeavoured, though vainly, to assure Paul that this was so.

"Any fool can see it," he had said; "cheer up, man; Vera is a ripe fruit, ready to fall into your mouth when you open it to ask her."

"I have asked her several times," said Paul; "you know that. She used to say she is engaged to some Russian."

"Oh, that old fable!" Henri laughed. "Well, has she dropped it lately?"

"She has not mentioned it, certainly, of late, but–"

"Very well then. It was a very good excuse while she wanted one. My argument is that she requires an excuse no longer. Ask her again before the Ambassadors leave Paris."

Paul accepted this advice. He generally resented advice, and hated to be preached at and interfered with, but he was always ready to take more from his friend than from any one else.

"I have come to say farewell, Mademoiselle," he said, calling at the half-dismantled embassy. "It is time you allowed me to know how I stand with you. That I love you with all my heart you are well aware."

"Monsieur—alas! It is not the moment to discuss such things. Let us try to part in friendship. If matters had been otherwise, I know not but that in time I might possibly have answered differently; as it is–" Vera paused.

"You are referring, doubtless, to your contract of affiance. Mademoiselle Vera, let me assure you that such a contract–"

"Bah! This is not a moment for deceptions, Monsieur; be sure that contract or no contract, I shall marry no one against my will."

"So far good, Mademoiselle Vera. To what, then, do you refer? With one hand you seem to give me hope; with the other you take it away again. What is between us, Mademoiselle? I am rich, I love you as I have never loved woman. Is not this enough for you? What stands between us?"

"Perhaps everything and perhaps nothing," said Vera with a great sigh. "You say you love me; God forgive me, for I know well that I ought to reject your love, yet I hesitate to reject it."

"Why then," exclaimed Paul joyously—he was about to take her to his arms, but Vera waved him away. "Why, what do you mean, Vera?" he continued impatiently. "Why must God forgive you because I love you? I am not a leper; you will easily be forgiven! Explain—you madden me."

"Can you not understand, Monsieur? See, I allow you to say 'I love you'—yet you are the enemy of my country; what will be said of me if it is known that I have done this shameful thing? To have submitted to be loved by one who is about to invade the land of my fathers–"

"Well—but—Mademoiselle, for God's sake let us understand one another," cried Paul, "Here stand I, professing to love you. Am I not to be loved again because I am a soldier of Napoleon? As soon I might say that I must not love a subject of Alexander. Your patriotism is delightful; I love you the better for it, but your conclusion is ridiculous."

"What would you have, Paul? I do not know my own mind. I like you; it is possible that one day I may be able to say that I love you. I am young; I am not yet sure what is love and what is 'like'. Is it not enough?"

"No, a thousand times no! I must possess you—hold you—caress you—release you only when the last moment arrives, under promise that when we meet in Moscow–"

This was an unfortunate remark on Paul's part. Vera fired up instantly, receding a step or two from him, for Paul had approached and held her tenderly by the elbows, ready to take her to his arms if permitted to do so.

"When we meet in Moscow?" she cried. "God send that may never be, never, never! Sooner I would never see you again than meet you, as you suggest, in Moscow. Do you think I do not realise what you mean by meeting in Moscow? I tell you, Paul, God forbid that I meet you there!"

Paul recoiled a little, abashed. "I apologise, Mademoiselle," he said; "of course I should not have permitted myself to use so foolish an expression. When the war is over, I should have said."

"When the war is over, love may begin or may not," Vera replied. "This is not the time to speak of love. I will not shame myself a second time. Go, Paul—I am a traitor to have said what I said—forget it—farewell!"

"I swear I will never forget it," said Paul. "You are cruel, Vera; I do not understand your attitude; you are not like a woman!"

"I am a Russian; my heart bleeds for my country which lies under the shadow of Napoleon and his Grand Army, of which you are a member. It is hateful of me to have spoken of love with a French soldier. Go, Paul, I entreat you." She held out her hand, Paul bent over and kissed it. Then he left the room without a word.

CHAPTER XI

At the Palais d'armes of old Pierre Dupré there was excitement. Both Karl Havet, Marie's fiancé, and young Maux, the second assistant, had received their conscription notices; both had been drawn; unless physically unfit or unsound, both men must serve in Napoleon's new and greatest army.

Maux was in excellent spirits. Being a splendidly built young fellow, lithe and strong as a leopard, there was no doubt whatever as to his fitness.

"I shall come back a sergeant, Monsieur," he said; "you shall see; it may even be that I shall gain a commission in the field—such things have happened before now!"

Old Pierre nodded approvingly. "You are going forth in the proper spirit, my son," he said; then he glanced sadly at Karl Havet, who sat with Marie conversing dejectedly over his conscription notice, and sighed. "Would it were the same there!" he added.

Louise fired up and spoke.

"You are not fair to them, father," she said. "You have no sympathy for the natural feelings. They were to be married in a month; they love one another; it is hard for them. If you were generous you would furnish a substitute for Karl."

"Mon Dieu, Louise, is it you that talk thus, you?" exclaimed the old man; "then indeed I do not recognise my own child. A substitute, when the Emperor has called him to arms? Shame!"

"It will break Marie's heart, be sure of that; she has been a good daughter to you, father; it is due to her that you should assist her in this emergency. Karl has no money to pay for a substitute—you have plenty. Let him stay a while at least with his wife. Be sure this will not be the last war; so long as the Emperor lives and Europe is not yet a province of France, there will be wars and wars. It is not right that they should be separated."

"Bah—you speak foolishly, like a woman; you disappoint me, Louise, you that have ever shown a spirit above that of a woman. As for separation, if Marie is so foolish as to depend upon the presence of a lover for her happiness, why should they be separated? Let her go also!"

"Father, what do you mean?" said Louise, gazing blankly at the old man; "do you rave?"

"On the contrary, never was I more serious. Marie is as good a man as the best; she lacks but the pantaloons—eh bien! There are many fools under conscription orders who will be glad of a substitute. Let her go to the war with her Karl, since they dread separation; she will be the happier and the richer too, for she will touch the money of some coward or fool who is ready to pay for his own dishonour—voilà tout!"

"And you, father, could your mind rest in peace if your child were exposed thus to the risks of war?"

Old Pierre started from his seat with an exclamation of impatience.

"Sapristi, Louise my child, you grow more foolish each minute! Do you not know that it is the one grievance of my life that I have no sons to fight for France? If I had a son and he went forth to battle, think you I should sit at home to weep in anguish of anxiety until he returned safely to the fireside? God forbid; I should thank Him daily, each minute, that I, too, had been found worthy to provide one soldier for France. Why then should I feel differently if I possessed a daughter who, thanks to her own fine spirit and to the training I have given her, had risen superior to the weakness of her sex and gone forth as a man to do a man's work in the world? I should thank God all the more—yes, and I should love my child the more, more by a hundred times."

Louise was silent. Now that her father explained his view of the matter she recognised that it was, after all, perfectly consistent with his character that he should think thus. That any one else should think the same way, however, was quite a different matter. Marie, for instance, would probably consider the idea a ridiculous one; her fiancé, Karl, was certain to laugh the suggestion to scorn, and yet Louise, to her surprise, found that she herself had listened to her father's words without the impatient amazement which so wild a proposal might have aroused in her. To her mind, trained as she had been, the idea of a woman assuming the dress of a man and enlisting as a man in the army of her country was neither absolutely new nor absolutely impossible. Louise knew, almost by heart, the story of Mademoiselle de Maupin, who had done this very thing a century ago; her career was a favourite theme of old Pierre's, who had drummed it into the ears of his daughters since they were children. Certainly if any woman could imitate Mademoiselle de Maupin with success, it was Marie. But Marie was in love and about to be married; she possessed no longer the manly spirit which would render such a thing possible, and Karl would certainly reject the idea.

"Suggest to them your scheme, father," she said; "but I warn you that they will not receive it seriously."

Marie flushed a little when the strange idea was mentioned to her; then she laughed and asked Karl what he thought of it.

"It is madness," said Karl, glancing indignantly at old Pierre. "That a man who loves a woman, whether as father or lover, should be willing to submit her to the shame and the thousand risks involved in such a scheme, is madness and worse. Thank God, I am not so selfish, Marie. Rather a million times, I will go alone."

Old Pierre shrugged his shoulders. "As you like," he said. "It is my misfortune. What other reply should I expect from a man who goes out unwillingly to serve his country?"

"As for that," said Karl boldly, "if I possessed money I should certainly procure a substitute; having none, I must go; it is hard, Marie, but—que faire? it is necessity that drives us apart."

Marie burst into tears and the unfortunate lovers left the room together.

"Bah!" said old Pierre, not untouched by his daughter's sorrow. "It is a misfortune—it is a disaster; see, Louise, how this foolish weakness called 'love' spoils not only a splendid woman, but a good man also. Karl is not a coward, and yet–"

"No—Karl is no coward, and Marie still less," said Louise, perfectly miserable. "Father, let a substitute be found—it is hard for them! You do not grudge the money, that I know!"

"My daughter, I would spend the money ten times to have Karl go willingly; to keep him at home, I will not spend it once; what, pay for the dishonour of one who would marry my child? God forbid!" Old Pierre left the room.

"It is an impasse" he exclaimed at the door. "I am sorry this has happened; but in honour there is only one course."

An hour later Louise still sat where the rest had left her. Soon after her father's departure an idea had occurred to her—an idea which evidently interested and absorbed her so fully that for a whole hour she sat motionless, thinking deeply, with set mouth and flushed face. The opening of the door startled her, and she looked up to see Henri d'Estreville entering the room, a sight which added a still deeper wave of colour to the flush of excitement which already darkened her cheek.

"Mademoiselle Louise," said Henri, "I have come to bid you farewell."

"Yes, farewell," murmured Louise, "I knew you would be going."

"I am happy to know that Mademoiselle has devoted a thought to me; it is right that it should be so, for indeed I have many for you, Mademoiselle."

"You go to the war," Louise murmured, speaking as though in a dream; "so should all brave men go; oh, Monsieur, it is grand to be a man, to take a great part in the affairs of life; to move and live and fight, while others remain at home to weep and think with folded hands. To which army corps is Monsieur attached?"

"To that of Ney," said Henri, puzzled by the mood of Louise. Evidently he had surprised her in a moment of unusual softness. Henri had thought, more than once, that the attitude of Louise towards himself indicated a certain partiality. To-day he was almost certain of it.

"Ah, Ney! glorious, splendid Ney, Bravest of the brave! Then I may picture you, Monsieur, as for ever in the thick of the fighting; I shall think of you, Monsieur, be sure; will you also think of me?"

"Assuredly, Louise."

"And how?"

"As of one who, perhaps, sits and waits until a—a certain young soldier returns to repeat to her, as now from his very heart he tells her, that in absence it was her image–"

"Oh, Monsieur," Louise laughed, "not so! sits and waits! Yes, perhaps; but not in spirit! In spirit, Monsieur, I, too, shall be with Ney, fighting with him and with you the battles of my country; suffering hardships, wounds, death maybe, God knows; think of me thus!"

"Yes, I will think thus of you, Mademoiselle; and when I return–"

"Oh, Monsieur, 'sufficient for the day is the evil'. How know you that you will return, or if you return that you will find me?"

"I shall return, Louise; I have no presentiment that evil lies before me; certainly I shall return, and as for finding you, that is a matter of course."

"What if you do not seek me, Monsieur? or if, when you seek me, you do not find me?"

"To the first I reply that I shall desire you, Louise, as the miner longs for light and air; why should I not find you? I will ask you to wait for my return, Mademoiselle!"

"Yes, I will wait for you, Monsieur, if I am alive."

"Then farewell, Mademoiselle; in that hope I shall live." Henri drew her to him. "Upon your lips," he said, "I seal my promise to return." Louise did not resist.

"It is true that I love you, Monsieur," she said; "I that never thought to love a man!"

"By the Saints," Henri murmured, as he hastened away, "that is an easier conquest than I expected. Moreover, she is splendid. It is certain," he reflected five minutes later, "that I have never been nearer to falling in love than at this moment—be careful, Henri."

"When I return," his thoughts ran presently, "there will be some pleasant hours to spend in tilling this virgin soil—tiens! I wish I was not going so soon!"

Then Henri d'Estreville proceeded with his farewell visits, which included affecting leave-takings with several ladies of his acquaintance.

Louise sat dreaming for half an hour. Then she rose with flushed face.

"Of course," she muttered, "it is the only way, and what better could there be? I will do it at once."

When the household of Pierre Dupré sat down to dinner, Louise was absent. The rest, with the exception of young Maux, were silent and depressed. When Louise came in her eyes shone brightly, her cheeks were flushed, and she smiled with some embarrassment as she laid by her sister's plate a folded paper. Marie took it up and glanced at it. Suddenly she uttered an exclamation.

"What is it—what have you done, Louise?" she cried. "It is a demission, Karl, in your name, in respect of a substitute 'Michel Prevost'. Louise, did my father—oh, where did you raise the money, sister?—Oh, Karl, see, she has saved us—she has saved us!"

"What mean you?" exclaimed old Pierre. "What have you done, Louise? You have paid for a substitute for Karl? By all the gods, child, I will not have it; it is an outrage; I will–"

"Father, let me speak," said Louise; "it is very simple. I have no money; I have paid no one. The conscript room is crowded with busy people—one has but to go up in turn to the sergeant, answer a question or two and pass on. 'Who are you?' 'Michel Prevost.' 'Conscript or substitute?' 'Substitute for Karl Havet.' 'Height?' 'Five feet seven.' 'Health?' 'Perfect'—scribble, scribble; a paper is handed you—'Drill yard at seven to-morrow—pass on!' and it is done."

"What do you mean, Louise?" exclaimed Havet, starting from his seat. "You have not–"

"Do you not understand," cried Marie, laughing hysterically, "it is Louise herself who has–"

"Yes," said Louise, "that is it, Marie; I am Michel Prevost."

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed old Pierre; "is it so indeed, Louise?"

"It is so, father; I am Private Michel Prevost; you shall have your desire at last; by my own will I am going forth. I shall be in good company, my father, for my regiment is attached to the corps d'armée of Marshal Ney himself; hear you that? I shall fight under his colours, the Bravest of the brave. Are you satisfied, father, have I done well? And you, Marie, are you satisfied?"

"Sister, you cannot, you shall not; it is ridiculous—you jest!" cried Marie.

"God forbid. I do not jest! Let no one dare thwart me by revealing my secret"—Louise looked round with smiling face but blazing eye—"You, Karl, or you, Georges, for I swear I will split with my rapier him who so does! I am a soldier of Ney's army, remember that, mes amis!" Louise ended with a loud laugh; she saluted the company military fashion and left the room.

For a moment a silence fell upon all present, then old Pierre's voice was heard repeating the "Nunc Dimittis" in Latin.

CHAPTER XII

Neither argument nor entreaty availed to shake the determination of Louise. Her father was entirely on her side, enthusiastically backing and applauding her resolve. Marie and her fiancé, though at first shocked that Louise should thus sacrifice herself for their sake, soon realised that the sacrifice only played a part in the comedy.

"Do you not see a second reason?" Marie asked Karl one day. "It has occurred to me that she has another motive besides that of serving us. Louise, too, is in love. I suspected it, now I know it. I accidentally saw her parting with the Baron d'Estreville; they kissed, mon ami; imagine Louise kissed by a man; that reveals an extraordinary state of affairs. Well, the Baron has already gone to the war. Louise, poor soul, cannot bear to be parted; eh bien! she will go also; perhaps, she tells herself, she will see him from time to time, at any rate she will be near him."

"Sapristi, it may be as you say," said Karl; "If so I am glad of it. Then we can allow her to go with minds more at rest."

However this may have been, Louise attended the conscript drill for a month with the rest, and assuredly Michel Prevost there acquitted himself as well as any recruit upon the ground. Accustomed to male attire, which she had worn for some seventeen out of the full tally of the years of her life, she betrayed no awkwardness, whether in plain clothes or in uniform. Accustomed no less to every athletic exercise which went towards the training of the young men of her day, she satisfied the drill sergeant as easily as the most active of her companions, not one of whom ever showed the slightest suspicion as to her sex.

At the end of the month the somewhat raw company of young soldiers, of whom Louise was one, marched through Paris and away; a month later on and they had joined the ranks of Napoleon's ill-fated army. This army consisted of 356,000 Frenchmen, and a heterogeneous collection of 322,000 foreign troops, consisting of Belgians, Dutch, Hanoverians, Italians, Spaniards, Austrians, Prussians, Bavarians, Hessians, men of Frankfort, of Wurtemberg and of Mecklenburg, Poles and others. It was called by the Russians "The Army of Twenty Nations".

Napoleon himself was at Kovno, with about 200,000 troops commanded by Marshals Davoust, Oudinot, Ney, Bessières and Murat. But the detachment of which the conscript Michel Prevost was a member did not join the mighty host until the river Niemen had been crossed, and the dogs of war set at the heels of Alexander and his men.

To oppose his great rival the Tsar had, at this moment, but 150,000 troops, under Generals Bagration and Barclay de Tolly, though 200,000 men were elsewhere disposed, to be called up when required. Besides these troops, the Tsar could count upon some 80,000 Cossacks already enrolled and equipped. Beyond and above all these, too, he could rely upon the nation to provide, in the moment of need, an almost unlimited supply of raw material, ready to fight and die with the best in defence of their beloved country.

Meanwhile Vera had returned, with the rest of the Embassy, to St. Petersburg, and here, within a very few days, she received a visit from Countess Maximof, Sasha's mother, a middle-aged dame of typical Russian appearance and manners: kindly, gushing, voluble in a mixture of Russian and French, used indiscriminately as the words happened to occur to her.

"But, my dear, you are charming, exquisite!" she exclaimed, standing before the girl in an attitude of rapt admiration. "We had heard that you had grown up very beautiful, but this! who would have believed it? And my Sasha absent and unable to see you!"

"Is Alexander Petrovitch away then?" asked Vera, embarrassed by the good lady's compliments and wishing the visit over almost before it was begun.

"Alas—he is gone to this cruel war, chérie, where else? All that is best and most precious of our manhood has gone, and Sasha with the rest. Oh, this Napoleon of yours—though indeed he is no more yours than ours—there is no good thing to be said of him; he is Beelzebub, the prince of the devils!"

"I do not defend him," said Vera. "Why should I? I am as good a Russian as the best."