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EPOCH IV
CAPTIVE, BUT EMPEROR STILL

CHAPTER I

It is to be regretted that of St. Just's MS., from which this story is compiled, many pages have been lost. The reader will have noticed that there are several gaps in the narrative—years in which his time is unaccounted for. From the numbering of the leaves preserved, it appears that more than a hundred pages are missing, pages that cover the period between the moment when St. Just left Halima after his duel with Napoleon in November, 1809, and the Emperor's abdication at Fontainebleau, 1814.

So that it is impossible to state with certainty whether, when St. Just rode away from his wife with the intention of gaining England, and informing the British Government of Napoleon's contemplated divorce, he carried out his purpose. This much however is known, that, by some means he managed to escape the Emperor's vengeance. How he occupied himself in the five years' interval cannot now be ascertained; but, from allusions in the subsequent portions of his MS. it would seem that for a portion of the time he served in the Russian Army, and took part in harassing Napoleon in his retreat from Moscow. How he got to Russia is not clear; but it is likely enough that he was sent there by the British Government with despatches for the Emperor Alexander.

Doubtless he was engaged in many adventures, at the instigation of his wife, but of these there is no account.

In the five years that had elapsed, great changes had taken place. Napoleon, no longer Emperor of the French, was confined to the island of Elba, in which he exercised a petty sovereignty; having been driven from his country by the treachery of his Counsellors and Marshals, backed up by the victorious forces of the Allies.

Halima was exultant at his downfall, in which, somehow, she persuaded herself she had had a hand. True, she had been plotting against him for years, but it may well be doubted that her actions had had the slightest influence on events; but she thought so, and was, in consequence content.

Josephine, the one woman who had had true and lasting love for the Emperor, was dead, her end, no doubt, accelerated by the divorce.

Louis XVIII was king of France, but, with the usual obstinacy of the Bourbons, he failed to recognize the enormous change that had taken place in the temper and sentiment of the people; and already there were signs, for those who had the wit to understand them, that, under the surface there were smoldering embers of discontent that would burn fiercely at the first fanning. But the powers in France were unaware of it, and the deluded monarch sat his throne in cheerful self-sufficiency.

But it is with England, not with France, that the reader has now to do.

The first of January in the year 1815 was remarkable for its mildness, enhanced, in the locality which was the scene of the events next to be recorded, by the blazing sun which was pouring its rays generously upon the earth from the blue expanse of cloudless sky, making the sap stir in the leafless trees, and dyeing the herbage a more vivid green.

In the Spring and Summer the scene would have been a lovely one, and even now, it was not without its charms—the charms that belong to an English landscape.

Away in the distance lay in the Sussex Downs, sheltering from the cold blasts from the North, a roomy, weather-beaten, red-brick house, at present the abode of Halima and St. Just. A short distance from this house, and looking down upon it, was Wolstonbury Hill, nestling beneath which was the little church of Hurstpierpoint; the spire only was visible from the house, by reason of the trees that intervened. Away to the right was Devil's Dyke, and still further in the same direction lay Shoreham Gap. Extending the range of his vision the gazer would discern a clump of trees, called Chantingbury Ring, a well-known landmark for miles round—the sailors say that, coming up channel, you can see it thirty miles away.

In the old-fashioned garden that surrounded the house and was bounded by the high road between London and Brighton—about ten miles distant from the house—strolled on this same first of January, a lady and a gentleman. Let it be said at once that they were Halima and St. Just. Her age at this time was about three and thirty. She was still a lovely woman, but had parted with her girlish looks. Some might even think that her increased years had added to her charms; there was no waning in them; only maturity; and from her intercourse with high-bred men and women, she had acquired an ease of manner, a dignity of presence and a wit and polish in her conversation that, with her quick intelligence, made her more fascinating even than of yore. Withal, she had lost none of her strong will power and imperiousness. She was dressed handsomely, but more quietly than heretofore.

As for St. Just, he was noticeably aged, though the change in him in the last five years was not so great as in the five that had preceded them. He walked with a slight limp, the result of a wound received in Spain.

Presently they halted in their walk, and stood silently watching the sun just beginning to slip behind the leafless trees that crowned a little knoll to the West. At the same time the chime of distant bells struck on their ears.

St. Just was the first to break the silence.

"Art happy, chérie, in the reflection that your vengeance is complete; that our enemy, Napoleon, no longer the great, is exiled; that my wanderings about the Continent are over, and that now we can be all in all to one another."

"But is it really true?" she asked.

"True enough, my dearest. Did you not read it in the newspaper I brought last week, when I went to London?"

"But newspapers oft lie. I am still not easy. You know, or ought to by this time, that I depend on what my spirits tell me; not altogether on what is common knowledge. And they have told me—"

"Hush! little woman, not so loud; you may be overheard. As it is, these English about here are suspicious of us, because we're French; what would they think, should they see and hear you at your incantations? I believe they would burn you as a witch."

She burst into a merry, careless laugh. "They must catch me first," she said.

But he did not join in her merriment.

"Don't laugh, my dear," he said. "If harm should come to you—" he sighed.

"No harm will come to me. If any should threaten me, my spirits would forewarn me of it."

They resumed their walk in silence, pacing up and down the graveled walks. He seemed moody and disturbed.

By this time the sun had disappeared, and the air had become cold and raw. Halima shivered. "I shall go in, Henri," she said. "It is getting cold. This country is not like our sunny France." After a moment's pause, she went on complainingly, "Where are your reflections straying to?"

"I was thinking," he replied in an absent tone, "of what I had been reading in the newspaper. I was thinking of the unhappy woman who was Napoleon's wife."

"Of Marie Louise?" she asked.

"No, of Josephine."

"Ah! I might have expected it," she retorted angrily and there was a dangerous light in her eyes, that might have warned him. But it only angered him. He turned upon her sharply.

"You sneer, but she was a noble woman. I am proud to admit that she regarded me with favor. I would have done much for her. But for your devilish ingenuity and persistent malice, I might have saved him for her sake."

"That you could not have done," she answered scornfully, "against my will."

"Pray how?"

"Recall to your mind the eve of the battle of Wagram. Ah! you would have made him believe in her, but for me. Abdallah was my agent, as you know."

St. Just nodded in assent.

"He was watched by one of the Empress's Maids of Honor."

"Yes; go on," interposed the man, in a tone of unnatural calm. He was putting a rein on his excitement. He felt that he was about to get an insight into circumstances that had puzzled him.

"She was in the power of her lover," resumed Halima, "a Colonel of the Guard. What was his name? Ah!" after a moment's pause, "Tremeau. He was watched by the palace Marshal, who was in the pay of Fouché. Fouché had his own interest to serve, and was in league with Talleyrand; and he, in his turn, was intriguing with Pitt and Malmesbury and other enemies of Napoleon. And I was in it all; I knew all that was going on, and helped to pull the strings. I was kept informed of all your doings at Fontainebleau, my dear—amours and all."

"I see," he said; "spy upon spy."

"V'là!" she exclaimed, airily, "One must watch one's husband when he is away. I know something of the ways of men. I always followed your movements, when you were traveling."

"Except in Spain."

"No, not even excepting Spain, for there I was kept au courant by Tremeau, who, you may remember, was in that country after Napoleon's second marriage. He was in favor with Marshal Soult, and betrayed his plans to Wellington. Yes, my friend, I had a finger in the Spanish pie, not less than in other articles of Napoleon's menu."

"But my missions?"

"Blinds, my innocent, mere blinds; the instructions in your papers were not intended to be acted on. They were written to mislead, in case they should be taken from you. I soon found out that you were only half in earnest about Napoleon; that, once under the glamour of his presence, you would return to your allegiance to him. Fortunately, I discovered this in time. Had you been trusted, you might have wrought irreparable mischief."

"Then I was played with all along?" was his moody comment.

"I would not put it so offensively as that, my friend. Let us say that the part you played was not a leading one; but you filled your rôle, such as it was, with credit. A stronger part would, I fear, have proved too much for you. You may thank me, therefore, that you were not cast for the jeune premier."

She laughed, a little scornful laugh that was not pleasant to the hearer.

For a few seconds, St. Just made no rejoinder. Then, looking at her sternly, he enquired, "Do you tell me seriously that you had anything to do with Tremeau's listening to my conversation with Josephine at St. Cloud, and afterwards forestalling me in my mission to the Emperor?"

"Certainly I do."

"You did an innocent woman a grievous wrong; what harm had she ever done to you?"

"None that I know of. I was not jealous of her, if you suggest that. I did not mind your philandering with her in my absence. Without vanity, I think I might put my attractions in the scale with hers. No, I had not the least animus against her; she was a quantité négligeable, a victim to the odium Napoleon would incur by her divorce."

"'Twas a heartless act. Had you no consideration for your fellow woman?"

"What thought had Buonaparte for me, when he robbed me of my innocence?" she retorted sharply.

He recoiled from her, as though he had been struck. "Ah! don't," he said imploringly. "Why remind me of it? It was almost blotted from my mind."

"But never from mine," and her eyes looked hard and cruel, and gleamed with a vindictive fire.

She tripped away from him, and he turned round to watch her until she disappeared into the house. A deep sigh escaped him. For the last ten years—the best of his life and hers—he had been her husband in little more than name; no sooner had he returned from one mission, than he had been despatched upon another. Now he came to think of it, he had been the mere instrument of her revenge, a tool in her hands, a sort of confidential servant; and, even so, not wholly trusted. The position irked him terribly, and, for the first time in his life, a something, that he hardly durst acknowledge as regret, stole over him, that they had ever met.

"I wonder what would have happened," he said half aloud, "if I had never left Napoleon."

He sighed again, then began slowly moving to the house.

A noise of shouting in the distance made him check his steps. He listened; the sound came nearer, and still nearer. Then, besides the shouting, he could distinguish the clattering of horses' hoofs and the pattering of running feet. Plainly, men mounted and on foot were hurrying along the high road in chase of somebody or something. And now a cry fell on his ear, that took him back to the bygone days—to France.

"A moi, mes amis; à moi, au secours!"

Without a moment's hesitation, St. Just dashed down the carriage way in the direction of the sounds. When he reached the gates, he saw an emaciated figure, panting and exhausted, running down the road; and, about a hundred yards behind the fugitive, some dragoons, with an officer at their head. The officer was waving his sword and shouting, "Stop him, stop him, in the king's name. He is a French prisoner escaped from Lewes." Some laborers in the neighborhood were following the dragoons. Other villagers hearing the noise, came up from the opposite direction with lanterns, to see what it was about.

Thus hemmed in, the hunted creature had no chance of escape. Seeing this, he would have given up the attempt and quietly submitted to re-capture; when St. Just, knowing, or rather guessing, that those who were pursuing him knew no French, shouted to him, "A moi, pour France."

The fugitive dashed on, and fell palpitating at St. Just's feet.

"The very man I sought," he gasped. "Take it." And St. Just felt a small, but weighty, parcel thrust into his hands, under cover of the darkness. To save the man from capture was impossible, for the soldiers were close upon him; and St. Just had only time to conceal the packet, when the commander of the dragoons rode up, a few yards in advance of his men. The fugitive had scrambled to his feet.

"Caught, you French rascal," exclaimed the officer, striking at him with the flat of his sword. The man bent to dodge the blow, and then, before anyone could divine his purpose, he made a dash at the holster before the saddle, and seized one of the officer's pistols. In an instant he had fired.

His aim was true. The officer swayed in his saddle, bent forward, then rolled off his horse to the ground, shot through the heart. But, before this had happened, there was another explosion. The assassin had raised the pistol to his head and fired the second barrel. He dropped to the ground and lay huddled up beside his victim. At the same moment, the foremost trooper rode up and dismounted to examine the body of his officer. He was stone dead.

The villagers crowded round the other man. He moved slightly. St. Just bent over him. The wounded Frenchman murmured the words, "May the good God forgive my sin;" then a shiver passed through his frame and he was dead. St. Just examined the man's features by the lantern's light, and was shocked to recognize in them Tremeau, the man of whom he and his wife had but now been talking.

The other soldiers had now come up, and the sergeant dismounted and proceeded to search the body. There was nothing on him, but the rags that covered him.

The sergeant scratched his head and seemed perplexed. How to remove two bodies on the high road with no proper means of transport, and whither he should take them, required deliberation.

He was considerably relieved, accordingly, when a short, broadset man, with gray whiskers and a florid face, and dressed like a country gentleman, came up. He had half a dozen greyhounds with him. The villagers made way for him and touched their caps respectfully.

"It is the squire, a magistrate," St. Just muttered to the Sergeant; "He will see to this business."

"Hullo! neighbors, what's the matter?" asked the squire.

He spoke in a sharp, jerky manner, with a strong Sussex intonation. Provincialisms were more marked then, than in these railroad days.

St. Just who had been the nearest witness to the tragedy, told the magistrate what had occurred, omitting however, the fact of Tremeau's having handed him the packet, for no one had seen the transfer.

"The damnable villain!" was the squire's comment, when St. Just had finished. "Thank God, we have done with these murderous French at last. Boney has been so soundly thrashed, that he will never work more mischief." Which showed that the squire did not excel in prophecy. But the villagers held the same opinion. "You're right there, Squire; we've done with Boney at last, but he's took a deal of doing," assented one, who seemed to take the lead. The others sent up a little cheer, but the grim sergeant only nodded.

"Take both bodies to the Hall," the Squire resumed. "I will communicate with the coroner; the inquest can be held there. You, Mons. St. Just, will, of course, attend it. And you, Sergeant."

St. Just assented, then wished the Squire good-evening and withdrew. He was anxious to put the packet in a place of safety for future examination, when he should be alone; for now, he expected his wife to come out every moment, to inquire the meaning of the disturbance; she must have heard the shots.

When he reached his study, he took the packet from his pocket and examined the outside. It was stitched up in a sleeve of French Guardsman's coat, and greatly to his surprise, he found it was addressed to himself.

"Major St. Just England."

Then it really had been meant for him. How fortunate that he had happened to be on the spot. He had supposed, naturally, that it concerned Colonel Tremeau, or some friend of his, and that he himself had been intended only as a messenger for its delivery.

He locked it up in his escritoire, and then went to seek his wife.

Later, another surprise awaited him, for, at the inquest, he discovered that the murdered officer was that very Captain Anson who, ten years before, had driven with him, a prisoner, along that same road, when on his way, unknowingly, to Trafalgar.

CHAPTER II

It was late the same night, or, to be precise, at an early hour—long before day-break—on the following morning, before St. Just found an opportunity of examining the packet that had so strangely reached his hands; for Halima was never fond of retiring early for the night. But, at last, she went to bed, and then St. Just betook himself to the room he called his own.

It was a cozy, pleasant room, and, at this time, a cheering fire was blazing in the grate. As he glanced around, his eye fell on the various familiar objects gathered in his journeyings and associated with his profession. Over the mantelpiece was the sword that he had worn in Egypt; while, in a small glass case below it, was the little reddish yellow brick of gold that he and Halima had picked up by the lake, beneath which had lain the subterranean city. In the bookcase on his right were three calf-bound volumes found at Moscow in the ruins of the Kremlin. Two of these were stamped with Napoleon's arms, the third displayed the Imperial arms of Russia.

He glanced at these and other memorials of his travels; then, with a sigh for what he might have done and been, but for his infatuation for the dark-eyed beauty who controlled him, he stepped to the escritoire and took out the packet.

Then a curious hesitation came upon him: a sort of fear of the news it might contain. He turned the packet about in his hands, his fingers trembling, and again carefully scrutinized the address. He did not recognize the writing and tried to think out the writer's personality.

At last he murmured, "Why do I hesitate? Why do I fear, I who have thrice braved Napoleon's wrath, and remained unscathed? Pshaw! I can have nothing to fear, so here goes."

And, with a hand that shook, for all the bravery of his words, he took a pair of scissors from the table and cut the stitches that secured the wrapper.

On removing this, what first met his gaze was a small packet carefully secured in oilskin. It was sealed with a seal that made his heart beat faster, and brought the tears to his eyes; for in the impression he recognized the cipher of the Empress Josephine.

This packet was addressed:

"S. M. I. L'Empereur Napoleon."

St. Just laid it down and took up a second package, heavier and bulkier than the first. This was addressed to himself and was in Josephine's handwriting.

"To Major St. Just, Greeting and Farewell."

This, also, he laid down, but with a sigh. He would open it when he had satisfied himself as to the remaining contents of the parcel. They were two pieces of English newspaper covered with manuscripts in French. Translated, the words ran as follows:

"A word from the lips of Charles Tremeau, formerly Colonel of the Imperial Guard, written with all sincerity at the House at Lewes to Mons. St. Just.

"Sir, knowing that my life, since I was so badly wounded in the fight at Vittoria in Spain, can be but of short duration, I hasten to send to you—if by any chance it can be sent—the enclosed packet, which was handed to me by the Empress Josephine, with instructions to forward it to you, in order that you might warn the Emperor of the dangers threatening him. It was meant to reach you last year, when you were in Paris. I pray you lose no time, when this and the enclosures find you. I have to ask your forgiveness for a breach of trust I now confess.

"Thinking that the papers entrusted to me by the Empress might implicate you and her in the Emperor's estimation, and thus make capital for myself, I opened the packet and made myself master of its contents. Hardly had I done so when I was forced to flee from Paris on account of Fouché, who was seeking me, and into whose clutches I had no mind to fall. Accordingly, I bargained for a passage to England with one Slade, of Brighton, a Sussex fisherman, then in the Port of Havre. Unfortunately for me, when we landed, he was arrested by the Custom House officers as a smuggler, and I with him. We were marched off to Lewes jail, where we have been incarcerated for the past two months. Alas! alas! most bitterly I repent my folly and dishonorable conduct.

"At my wife's instance, I took copies of these papers and sent them to the English Government, hoping they would set me free. This was a month ago, and I have heard nothing. Perhaps they have deposited them among their Archives, labeled as the wanderings of a lunatic! If so, the worse for them, but it is right that you should know what I have done; then you will be on your guard.

"It only remains for me to charge you to deliver the enclosed papers—they are the originals from the Empress—to the Emperor at Elba.

"This is written in the hope that I may find the means for it to reach you.

(Signed) C. Tremeau,

Chef de bataillon."

Below was added later:

"An opportunity for escape presents itself, or so we hope. To-morrow, all being well, I shall deliver these in person. Slade and I have arranged to escape together. We shall separate outside the jail and meet afterwards at his house near the village of Brighton. I give his address below, in case aught should befall me after I have seen you. Should this be so, explain my absence. Use him as you think well. He knows all and may be trusted.

"T."

Then followed Slade's address.

In much bewilderment, St. Just put down the papers; then, carefully, actuated by his affection, he took up the packet addressed to him in Josephine's handwriting. On opening it, the first thing that met his eyes was the sword-hilt he had given her at Fontainebleau, five years before. To it was attached a slip of paper with these words on it:

"In my hour of agony I found you a friend. Again I call on you, by the memory of this sword-hilt, to befriend me. I rely on your fidelity to deliver the accompanying packet to the Emperor, my husband, for so do I always regard him in my heart. So, go to him, my faithful and well-beloved friend, so soon as you receive this, I entreat you. Spare no trouble, lose no time, but go at once. You swore to help me, long ago, if ever you could; and I know you will. And now you can, for I count what you do for the Emperor as done for me. Then start, dear friend, on receipt of this, for the sake of France, for Napoleon's, above all, for the sake of her who signs herself, as she ever will,

"Josephine

"Empress Queen."

This letter from the dead hand of the Empress strongly moved St. Just. The tone of piteous entreaty that rang through it touched his heart, and her unswerving faith in him made a strong appeal alike to honor and affection. She did not know his grievance against Napoleon, when she asked him to assist the Emperor; therefore she was not to blame. And he—well, he would ignore it; for the time, at any rate.

"Adorable woman!" he exclaimed. "Faithful, trusting creature! And to think that I shall never see you more! All that is left me is to execute your behest. And I will; you shall not have trusted me in vain. Yes, this very day I'll start."

He glanced at his watch.

"Three. I can be at Brighton by four, if I ride sharply; and four hours later at Havre, with a favorable wind. I ought to reach the Emperor by the 13th or the 14th, at the latest. Yes, I must set out at once. Now to apprise Halima of my absence."

He seated himself at his writing table and, after pondering for a few moments, scribbled the following words:

"My dearest. Important business, the details of which I have not time to enter into now, calls me immediately to London. I will explain on my return.

"Yours, Henri."

This letter he addressed to her and laid on the table, where it would be sure to catch her eye, when she should come down in the morning. While doing so, a grim smile flitted across his face; he was thinking of Halima's rage when she should find that he had gone without consulting her. How she would stamp about and storm; would vent her spleen on the unhappy servants; they would have but a sorry time of it.

He went to the mantelpiece and took down his sword. "This sword," he murmured, "was first drawn in his service, and, if he require it, it shall be again."

He took up the packet for the Emperor, and placed it in his pocket. Then he picked up the Empress's letter to himself and re-read it. This done, he raised it to his lips and kissed it passionately. "I long to keep it in remembrance of her," he murmured, "but it is not safe."

He stepped up to the fire and threw it on the flames, and followed it with Tremeau's confession. He waited till both were shriveled into blackness; then left the room.

Pausing in the hall outside, he unhooked from a peg a riding cloak and a three-cornered hat. From a cabinet he took a pair of strong warm gloves and a brace of pistols, which he carefully loaded and put into his pocket. Then, as noiselessly as possible, he quitted the house by a side-door in the study, and made his way to the stables, which were close at hand.

Here he selected from a stall a suitable roadster, and saddled him with his own hands, not choosing to wake the grooms, who were sleeping soundly in the loft above. Then, he left the stable and proceeded down the avenue, leading the horse.

He had just mounted and was about to turn into the high road, when he received a check he had not bargained for. Barring his way, was a party of mounted men. There was sufficient light—for it was a clear, starlight night—for him to see that they were soldiers, and, by their uniform, hussars. While he was wondering what their presence could portend, a voice called out in peremptory tones, "Halt."

Clearly the words were addressed to him, for the others were already stationary. Desirous of concealing his identity, on the chance that they might be coming to arrest him—not that he was aware of having done anything to warrant it, but that his experience had made him apprehensive—he decided to pretend to be a groom; so, to the challenge he replied in broad Sussex dialect, "Who be you, Sirs, and what be you adoin' here? This here ain't a public road. If you want Shoreham, it's straight on to the right. Let me pass, please, Masters. I've got to ride for all I know for the doctor. My mistress is lying near on death, and master is watching beside her bed. Let me pass, sirs; it is a case of life and death!"

But the men made no attempt to stir, and the voice that had before challenged him called out, "Is not your master named St. Just?"

"Aye, that be's name," rejoined the pseudo-countryman. "Let me get through. I tell you my mistress is mortal bad, and I cannot stop for naught."

"Harkee, sirrah,"—the words came from a fresh voice—"your master is accused of conspiring against the King, and we have a warrant for his arrest. Lead us to him instantly, or it will be the worse for you." And the speaker moved his horse close up to St. Just.

There was something in the man's tone that seemed familiar to St. Just; he was confident he had heard the voice before. And, now that its owner had come alongside of him, he recognized him in an instant. He was Sir Henry Emerson, the man whose despatches he had purloined in the character of the Comte St. Clair.

Taught by the many perils he had passed through, he was generally prepared for an emergency, and never lost his presence of mind. On the present occasion, while the colloquy had been proceeding, he had been casting about for a plan of escape; and had decided on his course of action. Convinced that it was useless to parley farther—more than ever now that he had recognized Sir Henry Emerson—he slashed, with his riding whip, the King's Messenger across the face; then, suddenly wheeling round, he struck his spurs into his horse and leaped the fence that bordered one side of the avenue.

In making his jump, St. Just had been careful to select his spot. It so happened that, for some distance along the other side of the hedge, right down to the high road, the ground had been excavated for sandstone, for which that part of Sussex was celebrated. It was, therefore, full of pits, and anyone, jumping into them in the dark, must sustain serious injury, if not death. St. Just, however, knew the bearings well, and he had chosen the only spot on which one could alight with safety. It gave on to a grassy track that threaded its way between the various quarries and, after a long detour, came out eventually on to the high road, nearer Brighton.

St. Just's action had been so sudden that his would-be captors were thoroughly bewildered and, at first, could not conceive what had become of him. A moment ago he had been there; now he had disappeared. That was all that they were certain of. Sir Henry Emerson gave a yell of mingled pain and rage, and the officer and his men came round him to learn the cause of it. With a volley of curses, he explained. Meanwhile, the sound of horse's hoofs could be heard upon the turf, gradually growing fainter, until they were no longer audible. They knew nothing of the country, so to pursue the fugitive would be useless. Besides, in their opinion, he was not the man they wanted, and he could be dealt with when he came back with the doctor. So they proceeded slowly up the avenue towards the house, Sir Henry Emerson, with a red wheal across his face, cursing and swearing at every step.