Читать книгу: «For Love of a Bedouin Maid», страница 26

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."

Then, seeing his unbending look, "I see my appeal is useless. Say no more, I understand you. I expected this, but the blow is not the less mortal."

She sank exhausted on the floor before him.

Hard and selfish, as he was, he had some heart, and at the sight of her killing grief and the lovely, tear-stained face, that he had never before seen, except wreathed in smiles, a wave of pity for a moment rolled over his resolve, and almost stifled it. Her pleadings had raised strong emotions. He rose and began to pace the gallery, with head bent forward and hands clasped behind his back. "Stay," he said. Then he began to mutter to himself, "Yes, I would I could defy them." His hands twitched nervously. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. "Yes, and I will defy them. Am I not Emperor, and shall they dictate to me? By Heavens, no. They will only cringe before me, when I tell them that I refuse to be coerced by them." His hand strayed unconsciously to his pocket, and touched something. "And yet—" Then all at once his manner changed. A man was advancing along the gallery. It was St. Just, resplendent in his uniform as Captain of the Empress's guards. Napoleon's eye fell on him, and he remembered what Colonel Tremeau had said about him, he had called him the paramour of the Empress.

At sight of him, a frown gathered on the Emperor's brow, and his face became convulsed with rage. "No," he broke out in a voice of thunder, "No, I will not alter my determination. My Ministers are right. Ah! traitress," to Josephine, who had been anxiously watching his relenting mien, but now had uttered a cry, the knell of her expiring hope, "dost think I do not know that, when I am absent, you console yourself with others? It was so from the very first. There was that man who was with you in the days of the Revolution; did you not meet him again in Italy? Then there have been others, I have heard of, but how many I know not. And now this man," pointing to St. Just. He turned savagely on him. "Pray, Sir, what business have you here?"

The Emperor's fury awed St. Just. On entering the gallery he had not known that it was tenanted, though he was looking for Napoleon. "I came, Sire," he answered deprecatingly, "in the exercise of my duty as Captain of the Empress's guard. I was not aware that you and Her Majesty were here, or I should not have so presumed."

"You lie, Sir," roared Napoleon furiously. "You came to spy. Renegade, deserter, traitor, you are always intruding on the scene. But this time you shall not escape me; by Heavens; you shall die, as you have so long deserved!"

Instantly he drew his sword and made a savage cut at the Captain of the Guard, that would have ended that officer's career, had he not stepped nimbly back. Then, smarting under the Emperor's scathing words, and moved by sympathy for the insulted Empress, he did what ever afterwards, when he thought of it, filled him with amazement at his temerity. He drew his sword and placed himself in a position of defense before the Emperor.

The combat began. The Emperor attacked with ungovernable fury; so reckless was he, taking no pains to guard himself, that, had the other chosen, he could several times have run him through, and thus terminated the First Empire; but he kept calm, contenting himself with remaining on the defensive, parrying Napoleon's furious onslaughts, with such skill as he was master of. But to guard oneself in a duel, without taking advantage of openings for attack, when one's opponent is enraged and active, and fights regardless of his own danger, is no easy matter. And St. Just had all and more than he could do, for, presently, the Emperor, in making a furious lunge in tierce, was so far successful that he ripped St. Just's sleeve and slightly wounded his sword arm. This roused the officer's temper, and he began to press Napoleon in his turn, driving him into a corner; though still it was his intention to avoid even pricking him, if he could so far control himself.

At the first onset, Josephine had tried to scream for help, but, so paralyzed with terror was she, that her voice refused to come. So, with wide open eyes and terror-struck, she watched the combat, mute and motionless.

Napoleon, in making a fierce thrust, now slipped and fell upon his knee. He was at his opponent's mercy, as, indeed he had been all along, for all he had not known it.

Burning with the sense of his own injuries, and exasperated beyond control, St. Just had shortened his sword and was about to plunge it into his opponent, when Josephine rushed forward and seized his arm.

"No, no," she cried, "what would you do? It is the Emperor you would slay. More, he is my husband."

"And he would divorce you," St. Just retorted angrily. But Josephine had saved the Emperor. The few words she had uttered had given his assailant time to think, and he became once more master of himself.

Meantime Napoleon had risen to his feet and regained his sword. The Captain of the Empress's guard snapped his own sword across his knee, flung the pieces on the floor, and stood defenseless and erect before the Emperor. Then, as though all that had just passed had never been, he saluted, and said respectfully, "Mons. de Talleyrand desires an audience with Your Majesty; he awaits you in the White Drawing Room."

Boiling with indignation at his defeat, and longing to cut him down or run him through, but conscious that he had received his life at the speaker's hands, the Emperor yet felt that it was impossible to slay an unarmed man, and before the Empress, too. Perhaps it was, in reality, her presence that stayed his hand. At any rate, he lowered his sword. But the look of concentrated malice he turned upon St. Just was fearful to behold. "Why did you not deliver your message when you first intruded here?" he asked in a voice that was hoarse with passion.

"Sire, you scarce gave me the opportunity," was the calm reply.

"Go, Sir," resumed the Emperor. "I give you one hour to quit the palace; if, by that time, you are not gone, then woe betide you; no power on earth shall save you from my vengeance."

Then he turned to Josephine.

"Madame, the King of Westphalia dines with us to-night. See that you be ready to receive him." Then, moving his head in the direction of St. Just, he hissed out the words, "Make hay while you may; you have little time." Then he added sternly and emphatically, "I go to tell Mons. de Talleyrand to arrange for the divorce forthwith."

"Sire, Napoleon, hear me," shrieked the unhappy Empress, and she moved towards him impulsively.

"I have said it," he said coldly, then stepped quickly towards the door.

Josephine staggered back and would have fallen, but that St. Just caught her in his arms and saved her.

At the door Napoleon paused and turned his head, his figure sharply silhouetted upon the panelling, by the moon, which showed up the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor he wore, and accentuated the pallor of his face.

"You have one hour," to St. Just.

He left the gallery, and the door closed with a clang behind him.

The sound roused the Empress and she withdrew herself slowly from St. Just's support, and stumbled to a seat. She looked up at him, terror-stricken and bewildered.

"He is gone from me," she moaned. "I have lost him. Oh! what shall I do, what shall I do? Cruel, cruel!"

She pressed her hands against her head, as though to still its throbbing. Until her first grief should have spent itself, St. Just knew that to attempt to comfort her would be useless; and there was nothing he could say. He stood watching her in silence.

For some time she wept silently. Then, suddenly she sprang up, and her eye fell on the broken sword. She stooped towards it and raised it from the floor.

Divining her intention, St. Just dashed forward and wrested it from her hand. "Not that," he cried; "you must be mad."

"And have I not suffered enough to make me so? Why should I live? I cannot live. Oh! let me die," she wailed.

"Never," he replied impetuously. "There is yet happiness in store for you; life and hope."

"I will live, then; I may help him yet. Give it me," pointing to the broken sword.

"You swear you will not use it?"

"I swear. I shall keep it as a memorial of your fidelity. If ever I should be in dire distress and want your help, I shall send this sword-hilt to you. Then, come to me at once, for I shall need you sorely. Be careful for yourself; for Josephine's sake be careful, and do not needlessly meet danger. It cuts me to the heart to part with you, but you must go."

Her voice was broken with her sobs, and there was a hopelessness about her tone that went straight to her hearer's heart.

He went down on his knee and passionately kissed her hand. A bracelet containing a miniature of herself dropped from her wrist. He stooped and picked it up.

"Keep it, my friend," she said, "in memory of the unhappy Josephine."

She bent forward and brushed his forehead with her lips. "We shall not meet again, except to help him who has rejected me. If I seem unfaithful it is to serve him; to regain his love. But now he loves me not, so this token of affection to a faithful friend is no treason to him. Farewell, my dear, you must not tarry."

But, ere the last words had left her mouth, St. Just had sprung to his feet. Her words and the touch of her lips upon his brow had sent the blood coursing madly through his veins. His heart was in a ferment. Before she had divined his purpose, he had taken her in his arms and was passionately kissing her. Was it his fancy only, or did she really return his kisses? At least, she showed no resentment. "Farewell," again she murmured faintly. She struggled slightly to free herself, and he released her.

Then he ran to an open window and, with one last look at her, he vaulted through it and sped across the garden. On he flew, scarce noticing where he went, intent only on cutting one of the main avenues, for the time was going on, and his hour of grace would soon be spent; and then, unless he should be well clear of the precincts of the palace, the full weight of Napoleon's fury would be hurled at him. Soon he struck into a broad drive, and, by following this, it led him to the Porte Dauphin. Passing through the gate, he was hurrying onwards, when he felt a slight touch on his arm. With a start, he checked his footsteps and, not knowing whether it proceeded from friend or foe, instinctively he laid his hand upon his sword. He saw two figures in the darkness, a man and a boy; the man holding two horses by the bridles.

A silvery laugh rang out upon the stillness of the night and, the next moment, two voices spoke, together:—"Master!" "Henri!" The speakers were Mahmoud and his mistress.

"Halima!" cried St. Just astounded. "How come you here?"

"Am I not everywhere where my vengeance leads me?" she answered gayly. "And I fancy I was wanted here. Deluded schemer, it is useless trying to keep me in the dark; my agents have kept me informed of all your doings. So you have been doing a little plotting on your own account—and a little philandering too, eh? Oh! fie, you who swore that you had eyes for no other woman, that your life was torture when away from me. Oh! faithless, cruel deceiver!" And again her laughter rang out merrily.

It was so plainly unaffected, too, that even a less jealous man than was St. Just could not have avoided the conviction that he had not been greatly missed; that his wife had found consolation in another quarter. He bit his lip in mortification.

"Curses on Abdallah!" he muttered.

"Nay, curse him not, my dear," she answered airily; "he has not lowered you in my esteem. I blame you not; for, unwittingly, you have done good service. 'Tis, is't not, that the Emperor divorces Josephine?"

He nodded; he was offended at her banter, and somewhat shamed.

"Good," she replied, referring to the divorce. "It is the beginning of the end. Now tell me more."

Rapidly he sketched out what had passed, detailing Napoleon's fury and his threat to have him shot, unless he were away at once.

When he had concluded. "You have no time to lose, my dear," she said. "Mount, mount quickly, and ride away. They must not find you here. Make your way with all speed to England; there, at least, you will be safe."

"And you?" he asked.

"I shall be not long after you. Await me there. For the moment, I have work in France. My vengeance is working towards its climax. It will surely come, I know, but how soon I know not. Now go, dear."

He embraced her tenderly. "Oh! Halima, my best-beloved," he said, "why cannot we always be together?" Then he mounted one of the horses and galloped off into the blackness of the night.