 CHAPTER VIII of THE BRONZ EGLE, by Baroness Orksie, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dion Giants, Celtic City, Utah. The sound of revelry by night. But the hand had lost its cunning, the mighty brain, its indomitable willpower. Genius was still there, but it was cramped now by indecision. The indecision, born of a sense of enmity around suspicion, where there should have been nothing but enthusiasm, and the blind devotion of the past. The man who, all alone, by the force of his personality and of his prestige, had reconquered France, who had been acclaimed from the Gulf of Jouan to the gates of the Tularies as the Saviour of France, the People's Emperor, the beloved of the nation, returned from exile. The man who, on the 20th of March, had said with his old vigor and his old pride, failure is the nightmare of the feeble, impotence the refuge of the paltrune. The man who had marched, as in a dream, from end to end of France, to find himself face to face with the whole of Europe in league against him, with a million men being hastily armed to hurl him from his throne again. Now found the south of France in open revolt, the West ready to rise against him, the North in accord with his enemies. He has not enough men to oppose to those millions, his arsenals are depleted, his treasury empty, and after he has worked sixteen hours of the twenty-four at reorganizing his army, his finances, his machinery of war, he has to meet a set of apathetic or openly hostile ministers, constitutional representatives, men who are ready to thwart him at every turn, jealous only of curtailing his power, of obscuring his ascendancy, of clipping the eagle's wings, ere it soars to giddy heights again, and to them he must give in, from them he must beg and treat, give up, give up all the time one hoped for privilege after another, one power after another. He yields the military dictatorship to other far less competent hands, he grants liberty to the press, liberty of debate, liberty of election, liberty to all and sundry, but suspicion lurks around him, they suspect his sincerity, his goodwill, they doubt his promises, they mistrust that dormant Olympian ambition which has precipitated France into humiliation and brought the stranger's armies within her gates, the same man was there, the same genius who even now could have mastered all the enemies of France and saved her from her present subjection and European insignificance, but the men round him were not the same, he, the guiding hand, was still there, but the machinery no longer worked as it had done in the past before disaster had blunted and stiffened the temper of its steel, the men around the emperor were not now as they were in the days of Jena and Austerlitz and Wagram, their characters and temperaments had undergone a change, disaster had brought on slackness, the past year of constant failures had engendered a sense of discouragement and demoralization, a desire to argue, to foresee difficulties, to foretell further disasters, he saw it all well enough, he, the man with the far-seeing mind and the eagle eyes, that missed nothing, neither a look of indecision nor an indication of revolt, he saw it all, but he could do nothing, for he too felt overwhelmed by that wave of indecision and of discouragement, faith in himself, energy in action had gone, he envisioned the possibility of a vanquished and dismembered France, above all he had lost belief in his star, the star of his destiny which rising over this small island of Corsica shining above a humble middle-class home had guided him step by step from triumph to triumph, to the highest pinnacle of glory to which man's ambition has ever reached, that star had been dimmed once, its radiance was no longer unquenchable, destiny has turned against me, he said, and in her I have lost my most valuable helpmate, and now the whole of Europe had declared war against him, and in a final impassioned speech he turns to his ministers and to the representatives of his people, help me to save France, he begs, afterwards will settle our quarrels, one hundred days after he began his dream march from the gulf of Joann in the wake of his eagle, he started from Paris with the army which he loved, and which alone he trusted to meet Europe and his fate on the plains of Belgium, and in Brussels they danced, danced late into the night, no one was to know that within the next three days the destinies of the whole world would be changed by the hand of God, and how to hide from timid eyes the sense of this oncoming destiny, how to stop for a few brief hours the flow of women's tears, the ball should have been postponed, her grace of Richmond was willing that it should be so, how could men and women dance, flirt and make merry, while death was already reckoning the heavy toll of brave young lives which she would demand on the morrow, but who knows England, who has not seen her at the hour of danger, put off the ball, why perish the thought, the timid townsfolk of Brussels, or the ladies of the French royalist party who were in great numbers in the city might think there was something amiss, what was amiss, some gallant young men would go on the morrow and conquer or die for England's honour, there's nothing amiss in that, why put off the ball, the girls would be disappointed, they who liked to dance, why should they be deprived of partners just because some of them would lie dead on the battlefield tomorrow, open your salons, Madame Laduchess, the soldiers of Britain will come to your ball, they will laugh and dance and flirt tonight as bravely as they will die tomorrow, the sands of life are running low for them, in a few hours perhaps a bullet, a bayonet, who knows, will cut short that merry laugh, still the gallant heart that even now takes a last and fawn farewell from a blushing partner, after a waltz in a sweet-scented alcove with sounds of soft and distinct music around that stills the coming cannon's roar, Gordon and Lancy Crawford and Punsombie and Hulcat I and Wellington too, what immortal names are spoken by the flunkies tonight as they usher in these brave men into the hostess's presence, the ballroom is brilliantly illuminated with hundreds of wax candles, the women have put on their pretty dresses displaying bare arms and dazzling shoulders, the men are in showy uniforms glittering with stars and decorations, orange, Brunswick, Nassau, English, Belgian, Scottish, French, all are there, gay with gold and silver braid, the confusion of tongues is greater surely than round the Tower of Babel, German and French and English, Scott's accent and Irish Brogue, Padantic, Hanoverian and Lusty Brunswick tones, all and more of these varied sounds mingle with one another and half drown by their clamour, the sweet strains of the Viennese orchestra that discourse dreamy waltzes from behind a bower of crimson roses, whilst ponderous, Flemish wives of city burgomasters gaze open-mouthed at the elegant ladies of the old French noblesse and shy Belgian misses, peep enviously at their more self-reliant English friends, and the hostess smiles equally graciously to all, she is ready with a bright word of welcome for everybody now, just as she will be anon with a mute look of farewell, when at ten o'clock by Wellington's commands one by one, one officer after another will slip out of this hospitable house out into the rainy night for a hurried visit to lodgings or barracks to collect a few necessaries and then to work, to horse or march, to form into the ranks of battle as they had formed for the quadril, squares to face the enemy, advance, deploy as they had done in the mazes of the dance, to fight as they had danced, to give their life as they had given a kiss. Bobby Clifford only saw Crystal de Cambre from afar. He had his commission in Colin Halquette's brigade. His orders were the same as those of many others tonight, to put in an appearance at her grace's ball, to dispel any fears that might be confided to him through a fair partner's lips, to show confidence, courage, and gaiety, and at ten o'clock to report for duty. But the crowd in the ballroom was great, and Crystal de Cambre was the center of a very close and exclusive little crowd, as indeed were all the ladies of the old French noblesse who were here in their numbers. They had left their country in the wake of their dethroned king, and despite the anxieties and sorrows of the past three months, while the star of the Corsican adventurer seemed to shine with renewed splendor, and that of the unfortunate king of France, to be more and more on the one, they had somehow filled the sleepy towns of Belgium. Ghent, Brussels, Charleroi, with the atmosphere of their own elegance and their unimpeachable good taste, Clifford knew that the Comte de Cambre had settled in Brussels with his daughter and sister, pending the new turn in the fortunes of his cause. The English colony there provided the royalist fugitives with many friends, and Ghent was already overfull with the immediate entourage of the king. But Bobby had never met either the Comte or Crystal again. He had crossed over to England almost directly after that final and fateful interview with them. He had obtained his commission and was back again in Belgium as a fighting man ready for the work which was expected from Britain's sons by the whole of Europe now. And tonight he saw her again. His instinct, intuition, prescience, what you will, had told him that he would meet her here, and to his weary eyes, when first he caught sight of her across the crowded room, she had never seemed more exquisite nor more desirable. She was dressed all in white with arms and shoulders bare. Her fair hair, dressed in the quaint mode of the moment, with a high comb and a multiplicity of curls, she had a bunch of white roses in her belt and carried a shawl of gossamer lace that encircled her shoulders like a diaphanous cobweb through which claimed the shimmering whiteness of her skin. She did not see him, of course. He was only one of so many in a crowd of English officers who were about to fight and to die for her country and her cause as much as for their own. But to him, she was the only living, breathing person in the room. All the others were phantoms or puppets that had no tangible existence for him, save as a setting, a background for her. And poor Bobby would so gladly have thrown all pride to the winds for the right to run straight to her across the width of the room, to fall at her feet, to encircle her knees, and to wring from her a word of comfort or of trust. So strong was this impulse that for one moment it seemed absolutely irresistible. But the next she had turned to Marie St. Genesis who was never absent from her side and who seemed to hover over her with an air of proprietorship and of triumphant mastery which caused poor Bobby to grind his heel into the oak floor and to smother a bitter curse which had risen insistent to his lips. Madame Laduches de Agin spoke to him once while he stood by watching crystals dainty form walking through the mazes of a quadril with her hand in that of St. Genesis. They look well matched, do they not, Mr. Clifford? Madame said in broken English and with something of her usual tartness. And you? Are you not going to recognize old friends, may I ask? He turned abruptly whilst the hot blood rushed up to his cheek. So sudden had been the wave of memory which flooded his brain at the sound of Madame's sharp voice. Now he stooped and kissed the slender little hand which was being so cordially held out to him. Old friends, Madame Laduches, he queried with a quick sigh of bitterness. Nay, you forget that it was as a traitor and a liar that you knew me last. It was as a young fool that I knew you all the time, she retorted tartly, even though a kindly look and a kindly smile tempered the gruffness of her celly. The male creature, my dear Mr. Clifford, she added, was intended by God and by nature to be a selfish beast. When he ceases to think of himself, he loses his bearings, flounders, and a quagmire of unprofitable heroism which benefits no one and generally behaves like a fool. Did I do all that? asked Clifford with a smile, all of it and more, and look at the muddle you have made of things Crystal has never got over that miserably aborted engagement of hers to de Marmont and is no happier now with Marie's Day St. Janus than she would have been with, well, with anybody else who had had the good sense to woo and win her in a straightforward, proper, and selfish, masculine way. Madame Iselle de Cambre, I understand, rejoined Clifford stiffly, is formally affianced now to Missour des St. Janus. She is not formally affianced as you so pedantically and effectively put it, my friend, replied Madame, with her accustomed acerbity, but she probably will marry him if he comes out of this abominable war alive, and if the king of France, whom may God protect, comes into his own again, for his majesty has taken those two young jackanapes under his most gracious protection and has promised Marie's a lucrative appointment at his court if he ever has a court again. Then Madame Iselle de Cambre must be very happy for which, if I dare say so, I am heartily rejoiced. So am I, said the Duchess dryly, but let me at the same time tell you this. I have always known that Englishmen were peculiarly idiotic in certain important matters of life, but I must say that I had no idea idiocy could reach the boundless proportions which it has done in your case. Well, she added with sudden gentleness farewell for the present mon prue chivalier. It is not too late, remember, to bear in mind certain old axioms both of chivalry and of common sense, the most obvious of which is that nothing is gained by sitting open-mouthed whilst someone else gets the largest helpings at supper. And if it is any comfort to you to know that I never believed St. Genesis's story of lonely ends of murderous bandidi and what nots, well, then I give you that information for what you may choose to make of it. And with a final friendly nod and a gentle pressure of her aristocratic hand on his which warmed and comforted Bobby's sore heart, she turned away from him and was quickly swallowed up by the crowd. In spite of rain and blustering wind outside, the fine ballroom as the evening progressed became unpleasantly hot. Dancing was in full swing and the orchestra had just struck up the first strains of that inspiring new dance, the latest importation from Vienna, a dreamy waltz of which Dowagers strongly disapproved, deeming it licentious, indecent, and certainly ungraceful, but which the young folk delighted in and persisted in dancing, defying the mamas and all the proprieties. Maurice de St. Genesis, after the last quadril, had led crystal away from the ballroom to a small boudoir adjoining it where the cool air from outside fanned the curtains and hangings and stirred the leaves and petals of a bank of roses that formed a background to a couple of seats, obviously arranged for the convenience of two persons who desired quiet conversation well away from prying eyes and ears. Here, crystal had been sitting with Maurice for the past quarter of an hour, while from the ballroom close by came as in a dream to her the gentle wilt of the waltz and from behind her a cluster of sweet scented crimson roses filled the air with their fragrance. Crystal didn't feel that she wanted to talk, only to sit here quietly with the sound of the music in her ears and the scent of roses in her nostrils. Maurice sat beside her, but he did not hold her hand. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and he talked much and earnestly. The while she listened half-absently like one in a dream. She had often heard, in the olden days in England, her aunt speak of the strange doings of that Dr. Mesmer in Paris who had even involved proud Marie Antoinette in an unpleasant scandal with his weird incantations and wizard-like acts whereby people, sensible women and men, were sent at his will into a curious torpor which was neither sleep nor yet wakefulness and which produced a yet more strange sense of unreality and dreaminess and visions of things unsubstantial and unearthly. And sitting here surrounded with roses and with that languorous wilt in her ear, Crystal felt as if she too were under the influence of some unseen Mesmer who had lulled the activity of her brain into a kind of wakeful sleep, even while her senses remained keenly, vitally on the alert. She knew, for instance, that Maurice spoke of the coming struggle, the final fight for king and country. He had been enrolled in a Nassau regiment under the command of the Prince of Orange. He expected to be in the thick of a fight tomorrow. Bonaparte never waits. Crystal heard him say quite distinctly, he is always ready to attack. Audacity and a bold use of his artillery were always his most effectual weapons. And he went on to tell her of his own plans, his future, his hopes. He spoke of the possibility of death and of this being a last farewell. Crystal tried to follow him, tried to respond when he spoke of his love for her, a love the strength of which he said she would never be able to gauge. If it were not for the strength of my love for you, Crystal, he said almost fiercely, I could not bear to face possible death tomorrow, not without telling you, not without making reparation for my sin. And still in that curious, trance-like sense of aloofness, Crystal murmured vaguely, Sin, Maurice, what sin do you mean? But he did not seem to give her a direct reply. He spoke once more, only of his love. Love atones for all sins. He reiterated once or twice, with passionate earnestness, even God puts love above everything on earth. Love is an excuse for everything. Love justifies everything. Such love as I have for you, Crystal, makes everything else, even sin, even cowardice, same insignificant and meaningless. She agreed with what he said, for indeed she felt too tired to argue the point, or even to get his sophistry into her head. Strangely enough, she felt out of tune with him tonight. With him, Maurice, the lover of her girlhood, the man from whom she had parted with such desperate heartache three months ago, in the avenue at Bristolow, then it had seemed as if the world could never hold any happiness for her again. Once Maurice had gone out of her life, now he had come back into it. Chance and the favor of the king had once more made a future happy union with him possible. She ought to have been supremely happy, yet she was out of tune. His passionate words of love found only a cold response in her heart. For the past three months she had constantly been at war with her own self for this. She hated and despised herself for that numbness of the heart which had so unaccountably taken all the zest and the joy out of her life. Does one love one day and become indifferent the next? What had become of the girlish love that had invested Maurice de Saint-Jeanus with the attributes of a hero? What had he done that the pedestal on which her ideality had hoisted him should have proved of such brittle clay? He was still the gallant, high-born, well-bred gentleman whom she had always known. He was on the eve of fighting for his king and country, ready to give his life for the same cause which she loved so ardently. He was even now speaking tender words of love and of farewell. Yet she was out of tune with him. His words of love almost irritated her, for they dragged her out of that delicious dreamlike torpor which momentarily peopled the world for her with gold-headed, white-winged, mysterious angels and filled the air with soft murmurings and sweet sounds and a divine fragrance that was not of this earth. It must have been that she grew very sleepy. Probably the heat weighed her eyelids down. Certainly she found it impossible to keep her eyes open, and Maurice apparently thought that she felt faint. Always in the same vague way she heard him making suggestions for her comfort. Could he get her some wine? Or should he try and find Madame Laduchess? Then she realized how she longed for a little rest, for perfect solitude, for perfect freedom, to give herself over to the sweet torpor which paralyzed her brain and limbs, tired, sleepy, or under the subtle influence of some mysterious agency. She did not know which she was, but she did know that she would have given everything she could at this moment for a few minutes complete solitude. So she contrived to smile and to look up almost gaily into Maurice's anxious face. I think really, Maurice, she said, I am just a little bit sleepy. If I could remain alone for five minutes, I would go honestly to sleep and not be ashamed of myself. Could you, could you just leave me for five or ten minutes? And, and Maurice, will you draw that screen a little nearer? She added, affecting a little yawn. Nobody can see me then, and really, really, I shall be all right, if I could have a few minutes quiet sleep. You shall, Crystal, of course you shall, said Maurice, eager and anxious, to do all that she wanted. He arranged a cushion behind her head, put a footstool to her feet, and pulled the screen forward so that now, where she sat, no one could see her from the ballroom. And as in response to repeated encores from the dancers, the orchestra had embarked upon a new waltz. She was not likely to be disturbed. I'll try and find Madame Laduchess, he said, after he had assured himself that she was quite comfortable, and tell her that you are quite well, but must not be disturbed. She caught his hand, and gave it a little squeeze. You are kind, Maurice, she murmured. She felt exactly like a tired child, now that she had been made so comfortable, and she liked Maurice so much. Oh, so much, no brother could have been dearer. You won't go away without waking me, Maurice, she said as he bent down to kiss her. No, no, of course not, he replied. It still wants a quarter before ten. The screen shut off all the glare from the candles. The sense of isolation was complete and delicious. The roses smelt very sweet. The soft strains of the waltz sounded like elfin music. Like elfin music, tender, fitful, dreamy, and exquisite, languor stole into crystal's limbs. She was not asleep, yet she was in dreamland, all alone in semi-darkness, that was restful and soothing, and with the fragrance of crimson roses in her nostrils and their velvety petals brushing against her cheek. Like elfin music, sweet strains of infinite sadness, the tune of the infinite mingling with the semblance of reality. Like elfin music, or like the voice of a human being in pain, the note of sadness became the only real note now. What really happened after this, Crystal never rightly knew. Whenever in the future her memory went back to this hour, she could not be sure whether in truth she had been waking or dreaming, or at what precise moment she became fully conscious of a presence close beside her, just behind the bank of roses, and of a voice, low, earnest, quivering with passionate emotion, that reached her ear as if through the tender melodies played by the orchestra. It almost seemed to her, when she thought over all the circumstances in her mind, that she must have been subtly conscious of the presence all along, all the while that Maurice was still with her, and she felt so curiously languid, longing only for darkness and solitude. Something encompassed her now that she could not define, the warmth of love, the sense of protection and security, almost as if unseen arms that were strong and devoted, and selfless held her closely, shielding her from evil and from the taint of selfish human passions, and presently she heard her name, whispered low and with a note of tender appeal. Her eyes were closed and she paid no heed, but the appeal was once more whispered, this time more insistently, and almost against her will she murmured, who calls an unfortunate whom you hate and despise, and who would have given his life to serve you. Who is it? she reiterated, a poor heartbroken wretch who could not keep away from your side and longed for one more sound of your voice, even though it uttered words more cruel than man can stand. What would you like to hear? One word of comfort to ease that terrible sting of hate which has burned into my very soul till every minute of life has become unendurable agony. How could I know? she asked, and now her eyes were wide open, gazing out into nothingness, not turned yet in the direction whence that dream voice came. How could I know that my hatred made you suffer or that you cared for comfort from me? How could you know, crystal? the voice replied, you could know that, my dear, just as surely as you know that in a stormy night the sky is dark, just as you know that when heavy clouds obscure the blue ether above, no ray of sunshine warms the shivering earth, just as you know that you are beautiful and exquisite, so you knew, crystal, that I loved you from the deepest depths of my soul. How could I guess? by that subtle sense which every human being has, and you did, guess it, crystal, else you would not have hated me as you did. I hated you because I thought you a traitor. Is it too late to swear to you that my only thought was to serve you? By working against my king and country, she retorted, with just this one brief flash of her old vehemence, by working for my country and for yours, this I swear by your sweet eyes, by your dear mouth that hurt me so cruelly that evening. I swear it by the damnable agony which you made me endure, by the abject cowardice which dragged me to your side now, like a whining wretch that craves for a crumb of comfort. By all that you have made me suffer, crystal, I swear to you that I was never false, false, great God, when with every drop of my blood, with every fiber of my heart, with every nerve, every sinew, every thought, I love you. The voice was so low, never above a whisper, and all around her crystal felt again that delicious sense of warmth, the breath of love that brings man's heart so near to God, the sense of security in a man's all-encompassing love, which women prize above everything else on earth. The music was just an accompaniment to that low earnest whispering. The soft strains of the violins made it still seem like a voice that comes through a veil of dreams. Instinctively, crystal began to hum the waltz tune and her little head with its quaint coronet of fair curls beat time to the languid lilt. Will you dance with me, crystal? No, no, she protested just once, to-night, to-morrow we fight, let us dance to-night. And before she could protest further, her will seemed to fall away from her. She knew that her father, her aunt, would be angry, that, as like as not, Marise would make a scene. She knew that Marise, to whom she had plighted her troth, had branded this man as a liar and a traitor. Her father believed him to be a traitor, and she, well, what had he done to disprove Marise's accusations of few words of passionate protestations? Did they count? He wore his king's uniform. Many careless adventurers did that, these strenuous times. And he wanted her to dance. How could she crystal the cambray, the future wife of the Marquis de Saint-Jeanus, the signisher of a great many eyes tonight? How could she show herself in public on his arm in a crowded ballroom? Yet she could not refuse, she could not. Surely it was all a dream, and in a dream man is but the slave of circumstance and has no will of his own. She was very young and loved to dance, and she had heard that Englishman danced well. Besides, it was all a dream. She would wake in a moment or two and find herself sitting quietly among the roses with Marise beside her, telling her of his love and of their happy future together. But in the meanwhile the dream was lasting, her partner was a perfect dancer, and this new delicious waltz, in spiriting yet languorous, rhythmical, and half-barbaric, sent a keen feeling of joy and of zest into crystal's whole being. She was not conscious of the many stairs that were leveled at her as she suddenly appeared among the crowd in the ballroom. Her face flushed with excitement, her perfect figure moving with exquisite grace to the measure of the dance, the last dance together. A few moments before Clifford had made his way to the small boudoir in search of fresh air and had withdrawn to a window embrasure away from a throng that maddened him in his misery of loneliness, then he realized that crystal was sitting quite close to him, that St. Janus, who had been in constant attendance on her, presently left her to herself, and that without even moving from where he was, he could whisper into her ear that which had lain so heavily on his heart, that at times he had felt that it must break under the intolerable load. Then as the soft strains of the music from the orchestra struck upon his ear, the insistent whim seized him to make her dance with him just once tonight. Tomorrow the cannon would roar once more. Tomorrow Europe would make yet another stand against the bold adventurer whom seemingly nothing could crush. Tomorrow a bullet, a bayonet, a sword thrust, but tonight a last dance together. Those whims come at times to those who are doomed to die. Clifford's one hope of peace lay in death upon the battlefield. Life was empty now. He had fought against the burden of loneliness left upon him when crystal passed finally out of his life, but the burden had proved unconquerable. Only death could ease him of the load, for life like this was stupid and intolerable. Men would die within the next few days in their hundreds and in their thousands, men who were happy, who had wives and children, men on whose lives love shed its happy radiance. Then why not he, who was more lonely than any man on earth, left lonely because the one woman who filled all the world for him hated him and was gone from him forever. But a last dance with her tonight, the right to hold her in his arms, this he had never done, though his muscles had often ached with the longing to hold her. But dancing with her, he could feel her against him, clasp her closely, feel her breath against his cheek. She was not very tall, and her head, had she chosen, could have just rested in the hollow of his shoulder. The thought of it sent the blood rushing hotly to his head, and with his two strong hands he would at that moment have bent a bar of iron or smashed something to Adams in order to crush that longing to curse against fate, against his destiny that had so wantonly dangled happiness before him, only to thrust him into utter loneliness again. Then he spoke to her and finally asked for the dance, and now he held her and guided her through the throng, her tiny feet moving in unison with his, and all the world had vanished. He had her to himself for these few happy moments he could hold her and refuse to let her go. He did not care, nor did she, that many curious and some angry glances followed their every movement. Till the last bar was played, till the final chord was struck, she was absolutely his, for she had given up her will to him. The last dance together he sent his heart to her, all his heart, and the music helped him, and the rhythm, the very atmosphere of the room rose scented, helped him to make her understand. He could have kissed her hair so close were the heaped up, fair curls to his mouth. He could have whispered to her, and nobody would hear. He could have told her something at any rate of that love which had filled his heart since all time, not months or years since he had known her, but since all time filling every minute of his life, he could have taught her what love meant, thrilled her heart with thoughts of might have been. He could have roused sweet pity in her soul, love's gentle mother that has the power to give birth to love. But he did not kiss her, nor did he speak, because though he was quite sure that she would understand, he was equally sure that she could not respond. She was not his, not his in the world of realities at any rate. Her heart belonged to the friend of her childhood, the only man whom she would ever love, the man by whom he, poor Bobby, had been content to be defamed and vilified in order that she should remain happy in her ideals and in her choice. So he was content only to hold her, his arm round her waist, one hand holding hers in prison, she herself becoming more and more the creature of his dreams, the angel that haunted him in wakefulness and in sleep, immortally his bride yet never to be holy his again as she was now in this heavenly moment where they stood together within the pale of eternity, in this their last dance together. Far into the night, into the small hours of the morning, crystal the cambray sat by the open window of her tiny bedroom in the small apartment which her father had taken for himself and his family in the Rue du Mauré. She sat with one elbow resting on the window sill, her right hand fingering with nervy febrile movements, a letter which she held. Jean had handed it to her when she came home from the ball. Massore de St. Genes, Jean explained, had given it to her earlier in the evening, soon after ten o'clock it must have been. Massore Le Marquis seemed in a great hurry, but he made Jean swear most solemnly that Mademoiselle Crystal should have the letter as soon as she came home. Also, Massore Le Marquis had insisted that the letter should be given to Mademoiselle when she was alone. Not a little puzzled, for had she not taken fond leave of Maurice shortly before ten o'clock, when he had told her that his orders were to quit the ball then and report himself at once at headquarters, he had seemed very despondent, Crystal thought, and the words which he spoke when finally he kissed her had in them all the sadness of a last farewell. Crystal even had felt a tinge of remorse when she saw how sad he was that she had not responded more warmly to his kiss. It almost seemed as if her heart rebelled against it, and when he pressed her with his accustomed passionate ardor to his breast she had felt a curious shrinking within herself a desire to push him away even though her whole heart went out to him with pity and with sorrow. And now here was this letter. Crystal was a long time before she made up her mind to open it. The paper damp with the rain seemed to hold a certain fatefulness within its folds. At last she read the letter, and long after she had read it she sat at the open window listening to the dreary monotonous patter of the rain and to the distant sounds of moving horses and men, the rattle of wheels, the bugle calls, the departure of the allied troops to meet the armies of the great adventurer on the billowing plains of Belgium. This is what Maurice had written to her a few moments before he left, and it must have taken him some time to pen the lengthy epistle. My beautiful crystal, I may never come back. Something tells me that my life, such as it is empty and worthless enough, God knows, has nearly run its full course. But if I do come back to claim the happiness which your love holds out for me, I will not face you again with so deep a stain upon my honor. I did not tell you before because I was too great a coward. I could not bear to think that you would despise me. I could not encounter the look of contempt in your eyes, so I remained silent to the call of honor. And now I speak because the next few hours will atone for everything. If I come back you will forgive. If I fall you will mourn. In either case I shall be happy that you know. Crystal in all my life I spoke only one lie, and that was three months ago when I set out to reclaim the king's money, which had been filched from you on the high road and returned empty-handed. I found the money, and I found the thief. No thief, he, Crystal, but just a chaotic man who desired to serve his country our cause and you. That man was your friend, Mr. Clifford. I don't think that I was ever jealous of him. I am not jealous of him now. Our love, Crystal, is too great and too strong to fear rivalry from anyone. He had taken the money from you because he knew that Victor de Marmont with a strong body of men to help him would have filched it from you for the benefit of the Corsican. He took the money from you because he knew that neither you nor the colombed would have listened to any warnings from him. He took the money from you with the sole purpose of conveying it to the king. Then I found him and taunted him until the temptation came to me to act the part of a coward and a traitor. And this I did, Crystal, only because I loved you, because I knew that I could never win you while I was poor and in humble circumstances. I soon found out that Clifford was a friend. I begged him to let me have the money so that I might take it to the king and earn consideration and a reward thereby. That was my sin, Crystal, and also that I lied to you to disguise the sorry role which I had played. Clifford gave me the money because I told him how we loved one another, you and I, and that happiness could only come to you through our mutual love. He acted well, though in truth I meant to do him no wrong. Later Victor de Marmont came upon me and rested the money from me, and I was helpless to guard that for which I had played the part of a coward. I have eased my soul by telling you this, Crystal, and I know that no hard thoughts of me will dwell in your mind whilst I do all that a man can do for honor, king, and country. Remember that the next few hours, perhaps, will atone for everything, and that love excuses all things. Yours in love and sorrow, Maurice. The letter crumpled and damp remained in Crystal's hand all the while that she sat by the open window, and the sound of moving horses and men in the distance conjured up before her eyes mental visions of all that tomorrow might mean. The letter was damp with her tears now. They had fallen incessantly on the paper while she re-read it a second time and then re-read it again. A chaotic man, Maurice said eerily how little he understood, how well she, Crystal, knew what had been the motive of that chaotic action. She had learned so much tonight in the mazes of a waltz. Now when she closed her eyes she could still feel the dreamy motion with that strong arm round her, and she could hear the sweet, languid lilt of the music and all the delicious, elvish whisperings that reached her ear through the monotonous cadence of the dance of what her heart had felt then. She need now no longer be ashamed. All that should shame her now were her thoughts in the past, the belief that the hand which had held hers on that evening long ago in Breastelow could possibly have been the hand of a traitor, that the low-toned voice that spoke to her so earnestly of friendship then could ever be raised for the utterance of a lie. Of such thoughts indeed she could be ashamed and of her cruelty that other night in Paris when she had made him suffer so abominably through her injustice and her contempt. The next few hours perhaps will atone for everything Maurice had added, ah, well, perhaps, but they could not erase the past. They could not control the more distant future. Maurice would come back. Christel prayed earnestly that he should. But Clifford was gone out of her life forever. God alone knew how this renewed war would end. How could she hope ever to meet a friend who had gone away determined never to see her again? A last dance together. Well, they had had it. And that was the end. The end of a sweet romance that had had no beginning. He had gone now, as Maurice had gone, as all the men had gone, who had listened to their country's call. And she, Christel, could not convey to him, even by a message, by a word, that she understood all that he had done for her, all that his actions had meant of devotion, of self-effacement, of pure and tender love. A last dance together. And that had been the end. Even thoughts of him would be forbidden her after this. For her thoughts were no longer free of him. Her heart was no longer free. Her promise belonged to Maurice. But her heart, her thoughts, were no longer hers to give. It was all too late, too late. The next few hours might atone for the past, but they could not call it back. Weary and heart-sick, Christel crawled into bed, when the gray light of dawn peeped cold and shy into her room. She could not sleep, but she lay quite still, while one by one those distant sounds died away in the misty morning. In this semi-dreamlike state it seemed to her as if she must be able to distinguish the sound of his horse's hooves from among a thousand others. It seemed as if something in herself must tell her quite plainly where he was, what he did, when he got to horse, which way he went. And presently she closed her eyes against the gray monotonous light, and during one brief moment she felt deliciously conscious of a sweet, protecting presence somewhere near her, of soft whisperings of fondness and of friendship. The sound of a dream voice reached her ear, and once again, as in the sweet-scented alcove, she felt herself murmuring, who calls, and once more she heard the tender wailing as of a stricken soul in pain, a poor heartbroken wretch who could not keep away from your side. And memory echoes lingered round her, bringing back every sound of his mellow voice, every look in his eyes, the touch of his hand, oh, that exquisite touch, and his last words before he asked her to dance, with every drop of my blood, with every nerve, every sinew, every thought, I love you. And her heart, with a long, drawn-out moan of unconquerable sorrow, sent out into the still morning air, its agonized call in reply, Come back, my love, come back, I cannot live without you. You have taught me what love is, pure, selfless, and protecting. You cannot go from me now, you cannot. In the name of that love, which your tender voice has brought into being, come back to me, do not leave me desolate. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 OF THE BRONZ EGLE by Berenice Orksy This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Dion Giants, Celtic City, Utah. The Tarpean Rock Rain, rain, all the morning, God's little tool, innocent looking little tool enough for the remodeling of the destinies of this world. God chose to soak the earth on that day, and the formidable artillery that had swept the plateau of Austerlitz, the veils of Marengo, the cemetery of Islau, was rendered useless for the time being, because, up in the inscrutable kingdom of the sky, a cloud had chosen to burst, or had burst by the will of God, and water soaked the soft, spongy soil of Belgium, and the wheels of artillery wagons sank axle-deep in the mud, if only the ground had been dry, if only the great gambler, the genius, the hero, call him what you will, but the gambler for all that, if only he had staked his crown, his honor, and that of Imperial France, on some other stake than his artillery, if only. But who shall tell? Is it indeed a cloud burst that changed the whole destinies of Europe? Ye materialists, ye philosophers answer that. Is it to the rain that fell in such torrents, until close on midday of that stupendous 18th of June? That must be ascribed this wonderful and all-embracing change that came over the destinies of myriads of people, of entire nations, kingdoms, and empires. Rather is it not because God just on that day of all days chose to show this world of pygmies, great men, valiant heroes, controlling genius, and all-powerful conquerors, the entire extent of his might, so far and no further, and in order to show it he selected that simple, seemingly feudal means just a heavy shower of rain. At half-past eleven the cannon began to roar on the planes of Mont St. John, but not before. Before that it had rained, rained heavily, and the ground was soaked through, and the all-powerful artillery of the most powerful military genius of all times was momentarily powerless. Had it not rained so persistently and so long that same compelling artillery would have begun its devastating work earlier in the day at six mayhem, or mayhem at dawn, another five, six, seven hours to add to the length of that awful day, another five, six, seven hours wherein to tax the tenacity the heroic persistence of the British troops, another five, six, seven hours of dogged resistance on the one side of impetuous charges on the other, before the arrival of Blucher and his Prussians, and the turning of the scales of blind justice against the daring gambler who had staked his all. But it was only at half-past eleven that the cannon began to roar, and the undulating plane carried the echo like a thunder roll from heaving billow to heaving billow till it broke against the silent majesty of the forest of Sone. Here with the forest as a background is the highest point of Mont St. John, and here beneath an overhanging elm, all day on horseback, anxious, frigid, and heroic, is Wellington, with a rain of bullets all around him, watching, ceaselessly watching, that horizon far away, wrapped now in fog, a none in smoke, and soon in gathering darkness, watching for the promised Prussian army that was to ease the terrible burden of that desperate stand which the British troops were bearing, and had borne all day with such unflinching courage and dogged tenacity. It is in vain that his aids to camp beg him to move away from that perilous position. My lord, cries Lord Hill, at last in desperation, if you are killed what are we to do? The same as I do now, replies Wellington unmoved, hold this place to the last man. Then with a sudden outburst of hemmets that seems to pierce almost involuntarily the rigid armor of British flam and British self-control, he calls to his old comrades of Salamanca and Vittoria. Boys, which of us now can think of retreating, what would England think of us if we do? Heroic, unflinching, and cool, the British army has held its ground against the overwhelming power of Napoleon's magnificent cavalry, raw recruits, some of them, against the veterans of Jena and of Wagram, but they have been ordered to hold the place to the last man, and in close and sirried squares they have held their ground ever since half past eleven this morning. While one after another, the flower of Napoleon's world-famed cavalry has been hurled against them. Couriciers, chossers, lancers, up they come to the charge, like whirlwinds up the declivities of the plateau, like a whirlwind they rush upon those stolid, immovable, impenetrable squares, attacking from every side, making violent, obstinate, desperate onsets upon the stubborn angles, the straight, unshakable walls of red coats, slashing at the bayonets with their swords at crimson breasts, with their lances firing their pistols right between those glowing eyes, right into those firm jaws and set teeth. The sound of bullets on breastplates and helmets and epaulettes is like a shower of hellstones upon a sheet of metal. Twice, thrice, nay more, a dozen times they return to the charge, and the plateau gleams with brandished steel, like a thousand flashes of simultaneous fork-lightning on the vast canopy of a stormy sky. From midday till after four a kind of mysterious haze covers this field of noble deeds. Fog, after the rain, wraps the gently billowing, Flemish ground in a white, semi-transparent veil, covers with impartial coolness all the mighty actions, the heroic charges, and still more heroic stands, all the silent, uncomplaining sufferings, the glorious deaths, all the courage, and all the endurance. Through the gray mess we see a medley of moving colors, blue and gray and scarlet and black, of sheikos and sabratashes, of English and French and Hanoverian and Scotch, of epaulettes and bear knees, we hear the sound of carbine and artillery fire, the clank of swords and bayonets, the call of bugle and trumpet, and the wail of the melancholy piebrotch, tunics and gold tassels and kilts, a melody of sounds and of visions. We see the attack on Hughamont, the appearance of Bulo on the heights of St. Lambert, the charge of the innest killings and the Scotch's graze, the death of valiant Ponsonby, we see Marshall Ney, Prince of Moscow, the bravest soldier in France, we see him everywhere where the melee is thickest, everywhere where danger is most nigh, his magnificent uniform torn to shreds, his gold lace tarnished, his hair and whiskers singed, his face blackened by powder, indomitable, unconquerable, superb, we hear him cry, where are those British bullets? Is there not one left for me? He knows, none better, that the plains of Mont Saint-Jean are the great gambling tables on which the supreme gambler, Napoleon, once emperor of the French and master of half the world, had staked his all. If we come out of this alive and conquered, he cries to Hamas, his aide to camp, there will be only the hangman's rope left for us all. We see the gambler himself, Napoleon, emperor still, and still certain of victory, on horseback all day, riding from end to end of his lines. He is gayer than he has ever been before. At Marengo he was despondent. At Austerlitz he was troubled. But at Waterloo he has no doubts. The star of his destiny has risen more brilliant than ever before. The day of France's glory has only just dawned, he calls, and his mind is full of projects, the triumphant march back into Paris, the Germans driven back to the Rhine, the English to the sea. His only anxiety, and it is a slight one still, is that Grouchy, with his fresh troops, is so late in arriving. Still the Prussians are late too, and the British cannot hold the place forever. At three o'clock the fog lifts, the veil that has wrapped so many sounds, such awful and wonderful visions, in a kind of mystery, is lifted now, and it reveals what, Hugamont invested, brave bearing there with a handful of men, English, German, Brunswickians, making a last stand with ten rounds of ammunition left to them per man, and the French engineers already battering in the gates of the enclosing wall that surrounds the chateau and chapel of Goumont, the farm of Lahaise, St. Taken. Nay, there with his regiment of Couriciers, and five battalions of the Old Guard, and the English lines on the heights of Mont Saint-Jean, apparently giving way. We see, too, a vast hecatome. Glory and might must claim their many thousand victims. The dead and dying lie scattered like ponds upon an abandoned chessboard. The humble ponds in this huge and final gamble for supremacy and power, for national existence and for liberty. Hugamont, Lahaise, St. Papalo, are sewn with illustrious dad, but on the plateau of Mont Saint-Jean the British still hold their ground. Wellington is still there on the heights with the majestic trees of Sonnier behind him, the stately canopy of the Elm above his head, more frigid than before, more heroic, but also more desperately anxious. Blucher, or nightfall, his size as a fresh cavalry charge is hurled against those indomitable British squares, the thirteenth assault, and still they stand or kneel on one knee, those gallant British boys. Bayonet in hand or carbine they fire, fall out and reform again, shaken, hustled, encroached on they may be, but still they stand and fire with coolness and precision. The ranks are not broken yet. Officers ride up to the Field Marshal to tell him that the situation has become desperate. Their regiments decimated, their men exhausted. They ask for fresh orders, but he has only one answer for them. There are no fresh orders saved to hold out to the last man. And down in the valley at La Belle Alliance is the great gambler, the man who today will either be emperor again, a greater, mightier monarch than even he has ever been, or who will sink to a status which perhaps the meanest of his erstwhile subjects would never envy. But just now at four o'clock when the fog has lifted, he is flushed with excitement, exalted in the belief in victory. The English center on Mont Saint-Jean is giving way at last, he is told. The beginning of retreat, he cries, and he, who had been anxious at Austerlitz, despondent at Marengo, is gay and happy and brimming full of hope. De Marmont, he calls to his faithful friend, De Marmont, go ride to Paris now. Tell them that victory is ours. No, no, he adds excitedly, don't go all the way. Ride to Guenot, Guenot, and send a message to Paris from there. Then come back to be with us in the hour of victory. And Victor De Marmont rides off in order to proclaim to the world at large the great victory which the emperor has won this day over all the armies of Europe banded and coalesced against him. From far away on the road of Awan has come the first rumor that Blucher and his body of Prussians are nigh, still several hours march from Waterloo, but advancing, advancing, for hours Wellington has been watching for them until wearily he has sighed, Blucher or Nightfall alone can save us from annihilation now. The rumor, oh, it was merely the whispering of the wind, but still a rumor nevertheless means fresh courage to tired, half-spent troops, even deeds of unparalleled heroism need the stimulus of renewed hope. Sometimes the rumor has also come to the ears of the emperor, of nigh, and of all the officers of the staff. They all know that those magnificent British troops whom they have fought all day must benign to their final desperate effort at last, with not left to them but their stubborn courage and that tenacity which has been ever since the wonder of the world. They know these brave soldiers of Napoleon who have fought and admired the brave foe that the first and second lifeguards are decimated by now, that entire British and German regiments are caught up, that Picton is dead, the Scots' graves almost annihilated. They know what havoc their huge cavalry charges have made in the magnificent squares of British infantry. They know that heroism and tenacity and determination must give way at last before superior numbers, before fresh troops, before persistent ever renewed attacks. Only a few fresh troops and nigh declares that he can conquer the final dogged endurance of the British troops before they in their turn receive the support of Blucher and his Prussians, or before nightfall gives them a chance of rest. So he sends Colonel Hamas to his emperor with the urgent message, more troops I entreat, more troops and I can break the English center before the Prussians come. None knew better than he that this was the great hazard on which the life and honor of his emperor had been staked, that Imperial France was fighting hand to hand with Great Britain, each for her national existence, each for supremacy and might and the honor of her flag. Imperial France, bold, daring, impetuous, great Britain, tenacious, firm and impassive. Wellington, under the elm tree, calmly scanning the horizon, while bullets whizz passed around his head and ordering his troops to hold on to the last man, the emperor on horseback under a hail storm of shot and shell and bullets riding from end to end of his lines. Ney and his division of currissers and grenadiers of the Old Guard had just obeyed the emperor's last orders, which had been to take Lahae Saint at all costs, and the intrepid Marshal now flushed with victory had sent his urgent message to Napoleon, more troops and I can yet break through the English center before the arrival of the Prussians. More troops cried the emperor in despair, where am I to get them from? Am I a creator of men? And from far away the rumor Blucher and the Prussians are Ney. Stop that rumor from spreading to the ears of our men, in God's name don't let them know it, adjures Napoleon in a message to Ney. And he himself sends his own staff officers to every point of the field of battle to shout and proclaim the news that it is Grouchy, who is Ney, Grouchy with reinforcements, Grouchy with the victorious troops from Ligny, fresh from conquered laurels. And the news gives fresh heart to the imperial troops. Viva, la Emperor, they shout more certain than ever a victory. The gray day has yielded at last to the kiss of the sun. Far away at Bran, la Allude, a vivid streak of gold has rent the bank of heavy clouds. It is now close on seven o'clock. There are two more hours, two nightfall, and Blucher is not yet here. Some of the Prussians have certainly debouched on Plunt's Annoy, but Napoleon's Old Guard have turned them out again, and from Le Maul now comes the sound of heavy cannonade, as if Grouchy had come upon Blucher after all, and all hopes of reinforcements for the British troops were finally at an end. Napoleon, Emperor still, and still flushed with victory, looks through his glasses on the British lines. To him it seems that these are shaken, that Wellington is fighting with the last of his men. This is the hour, then, when victory awaits, attentive, ready to bestow her crown on him who can hold out and fight the longest, on him who at the last can deliver the irresistible attack. And Napoleon gives the order for the final attack, which must be more formidable, more overpowering than any that have gone before. The plateau of Mont Saint-Jean, he commands, must be carried at all costs. Corsairs, lancers, and grenadiers, then once more to the charge, strew once more the plains of Waterloo with your dying and your dead. Up, Milhaud, with your guards, pour it with your grenadiers, Michael with your chassirs, up ye heroes of a dozen campaigns, of a hundred victories, up ye old growlers with the fur bonnets, Napoleon's invincible old guard, with Ney himself to lead you, a hero among heroes, the bravest where all are brave. Have you ever seen a tidal wave of steel rising and surging under the lash of the gale? So they come now, those corsairs and lancers and chassirs, their helmets, their swords, their lances gleaming in the golden light of the sinking sun. In closed ranks, stirrup to stirrup, they swoop down into the valley and raise again, scaling the muddy heights, superb as on parade, with their finest generals at their head, Milhaud, Hanryan, Michael, Mallet, and Ney between them all. Splendid they are, and certain a victory, they gallop past as if at a review on the Place du Carousel, opposite the windows of the tularies, all to the repeated cry of Viva l'Empereur. And as they gallop past, the wounded and the dying lift themselves up from the blood-stained earth and raise their feeble voices to join in that triumphant call, Viva l'Empereur. There's an old veteran there who fought at Austerlitz and at Janna. He has three stripes upon his sleeve, but both his legs are shattered, and he lies on the roadside, propped up against a hedge. And as these superb cavalry ride proudly by, he shouts lustily, forward comrades, alas, victorious charge, long live the Emperor. After that, who was to blame? Was human agency to blame? Did Ney, the finest cavalry leader, in Napoleon's magnificent army, the veteran of an hundred glorious victories? Did he make the one blunder of his military career by dividing his troops into too many separate columns, rather than concentrating them for the one all-powerful attack upon the British centers? Did he indeed mistake the way and lead his splendid cavalry by roundabout crossways to the plateau instead of by the straight Brussels road? Or did the obscure traitor, over whom history has thrown a veil of mystery, betray this fresh advance against the British center to Wellington? Was any man to blame? Was it not rather the hand of God that had already fallen with almighty and divine weight upon the ambitious and reckless adventurer? Was it not the voice of God that spoke to him through the cannon's roar of Waterloo, so far but no farther shalt thou go? Enough of thy will and thy power and thy ambition, enough of this scourge of bloodshed and of misery which I have allowed thee to wield for so long, enough of devastated homes, of starvation and of poverty, enough of the fatherless and of the widow, and up above on the plateau the British troops hear the thunder of thousands of horses hooves galloping, galloping to this last charge which must be irresistible, and sturdy, wearied hands, black with powder and stained with blood, grasp more firmly still the bayonet, the rifle, or the carbine, and they wait. Those exhausted, intrepid, valiant men, they wait for that thundering charge. With wide open eyes fixed upon the crust of the hill, they wait for the charge. They are ready for death, but they are not prepared to yield. Along the edge of the plateau, in a huge semicircle that extends from Hugamont to the Brussels Road, the British gunners wait for the order to fire. Behind them, Wellington, eagle-eyed and calm, warned by God, or by a traitor, but still by God, of the coming assault on his positions, scours the British lines from end to end. Valiant Maitland is there with his brigade of guards, and Adam with his artillery. There are vandalors and vivians cavalry, and colon-helkets, guards, heroes all ready to die and hearing the approach of death in that distant roar of thunder, the onrush of Napoleon's invincible cavalry, here too further out toward the east and the west, extending the British lines as far as nevels on one side and Brussels on the other, are William, Hulkettes, Hanoverians, Duplats, German brigade, the Dutch and the Belgians, the Brunswickers, and Amptetta's decimated corps. The French royalists are here too, scattered among the foreign troops, brother prepared to fight brother to the death. St. Janus is among the Brunswickers, but Bobby Clifford is with Maitland's guards, and now the wave of steel is surging up the incline. The gleam of shining metal pierces the distant haze, casks and lenses glitter in the slowly sinking sun. Whilst from billow to billow, the echo brings to straining ears the triumphant cry, Viva l'Empereur. Five minutes later the British artillery, ranged along the crest, has made a huge breach in that solid, moving mass of horses and of steel. Quickly the breach is repaired. The ranks close up again. This is a parade, a review. The eyes of France are upon her sons and Viva l'Empereur. Still they come, volley after volley from the British guns makes deadly havoc among those glistering ranks, but nevertheless they come. No halt save for the quick closing up into seried orderly columns, and then on with the advance, like the surging up of a tidal wave against the cliffs, on with the advance up the slopes toward the crest, where those who are in the front ranks are mowed down by the British guns, their places taken by others from the rear, those others mowed down again and again replaced, falling in their hundreds as they reach the crest, like the surf that shivers and dies as it strikes against the cliffs. Ney's horse is killed under him. The fifth today, but he quickly extricates himself from saddle and stirrups and continues on his way, on foot, sword in hand, the sword that conquered at Austerlitz, at Isleau, and at Moskowa. Round him the grenadiers of the Old Guard, they, with the fur bonnets and the grizzled moustaches, tighten up their ranks. They advance behind the cavalry, and after every volley from the British guns, they shout loudly, Viva la Emperor, and anon the tidal wave, despite the ebb, despite the constant breaking of its surf, has by sheer force of weight hurled itself upon the crust of the plateau. The Brunswickers on the left are scattered. Cleaves and Lloyd have been forced to abandon their guns. The British artillery is silenced, and the chasseurs of Michael hold the extreme edge of the upland, and turn a deadly fusillade upon Colin Halket's brigade, already attacked by Milhaud and his guards, and now severely shaken. See that English general cries Dushad to his croissiers. He is between two fires. He cannot escape. No, he cannot, but he ceases the colors of the 33rd whose young lieutenant has just fallen, and who threatens to yield under the devastating crossfire. He brandishes the tattered colors high up above his head, as high as he can hold them. He calls to his men to rally, and then falls grievously wounded. But his guards have rallied. They stand firm now, and Dushad, chewing his gray moustache, murmurs his appreciation of so gallant a foe. That side will win, he mutters, who can best keep on killing. Up guards and at them. Maitland's brigade of guards had been crouching in the corn, crouching, waiting for the order to charge. Red-coated lions in the ripening corn, ready to spring at the word. And death, the harvester in chief, stands by with his scythe ready for the mowing. Up guards and at them. It is Maitland and his gallant brigade of guards out of the corn they rise, and front the three battalions of Michael's chasseurs, who were the first to reach the highest point of the hill. They fire, and death with his scythe has laid three hundred low. The tricolor flag is riddled with grapeshot, and general Michael has fallen. Then indeed the mighty wave of steel can advance no longer, for it is confronted with an impenetrable wall, a wall of living, palpitating, heroic men, men who for hours have stood their ground and fought for the honor of Britain and of her flag, men who with set teeth and grim determination were ready to sell their lives dearly if lives were to be sold, men in fact who have had their orders to hold out to the last man, and who are going to obey those orders now. Up guards and at them, and surprised, bewildered, staggered, the chasseurs pause, three hundred of their comrades lie dead or dying on the ground. They pause, their ranks are broken. With his last dying scythe, brave general Michael tries to rally them, but he breathes his last, ere he succeeds, his second in command loses his head. He should have ordered a bayonet charge, sudden swift and sure, against that red wall that rushes at them with such staggering power, but he too tries to rally his men to reform their ranks. How can they reform, as for parade, under the deadly fire of the British guards? Confusion begins its deathly sway, the chasseurs under conflicting orders stand for full ten minutes, almost motionless, under that devastating fire, and far away on the heights of Frichemont, the first line of Prussian bayonets are seen silhouetted against the sunset sky. Wellington has seen it. Blucher has come at last, one final effort, one more mighty, gigantic, superhuman struggle, and the glorious end would be in sight. He gives the order for a general charge. Forward boys, cries Colonel Soltun to his brigade, now is the time. Heads down, the British charge, the chasseurs are already scattered, but behind the chasseurs, fronting Maitland's brigade, fronting Adam and his artillery, fronting Soltun and Colborne, the fire-eater, the Old Guard is seen to advance. The Old Guard, who through twelve campaigns and and hundred victories, have shown the world how to conquer and how to die. When Michael's chasseurs were scattered, when their general fell, when the English lines exhausted and shaken for a moment rallied at Wellington's call, up guards and at them, when from far away on the heights of Frichemont the first line of Prussian bayonets were silhouetted against the sunset sky, then did Napoleon's old growlers with their furbonnets and their grizzled mustaches enter the line of action to face the English guards. They were facing death and knew it, but still they cried, Viva l'Empereur! Heads down, the British charge, whilst from Ohane comes the roar of Bluker's guns, and up from the east, Zeitin with the Prussians rushes up to join in the assault. Then the carnage begins, for the Old Guard is still advancing in solid squares, solemn, unmoved, magnificent. The bronze eagles on their bonnets catch the golden rays of the setting sun. Thus they advance in face of deadly fire. They fall like corn before the scythe, a sublime suicide to the cry of Viva l'Empereur, and not one of the brigade is missing, except those who are dead. They know, none better, that this is the beginning of the end. Perhaps they do not care to live if their Emperor is to be Emperor no longer, if he is to be sent back to exile to the prison of Elba or worse, and so they advance in sirried squares, while Maitland's artillery has attacked them in the rear. Great gaps are made in those ranks, but they are quickly filled up again. The squares become less solid, smaller, but they remain compact. Still they advance, but now, close behind them, Bluker's guns begin to thunder, and Zeitin's columns are rapidly gaining ground. All round their fur bonnets, a hellstorm of grapeshot is raging, whilst Adam's artillery is in action within fifty paces at their flank. But the old growlers who had suffered death with silent fortitude in the snows of Russia, who had been as grand in their defeat at Moscow and at Leipzig as they had been in the triumphs of Auerstadt or of Friedland, they neither staggered nor paused in their advance, on they went, carrying their muskets on their shoulders, a cloud of terrillers in front of them, right into the crossfire of the British guns, their loud cry of Viva Emperor drowning that other awesome terrible cry which someone had raised a while ago and which now went from mouth to mouth, we are betrayed, Savay Kiput. The Prussians were in their rear, the British were charging their front, and panic had seized the most brilliant cavalry the world had ever seen. Savay Kiput is echoed now and re-echoed all along the crest of the plateau, and the echo rolls down the slope into the valley, where Reel's infantry and a regiment of chorosaurs and three more battalions of chasseurs are making ready to second the assault on Mont Saint-Jean. Reel and his infantry pause and listen, the chorosaurs halt in their upward movement, whilst up on the ridge of the plateau where Danzalot's grenadiers have attacked the brigade of Kempt and Lambert and Paak, the whisper goes from mouth to mouth, we are betrayed, Savay Kiput. Panic seizes the younger men, they turn their horses' heads back toward the slopes, the stampede has commenced, very soon it grows, the British in front, the Prussians in the rear, Savay Kiput. Ney amongst them is almost unrecognizable, his face is cold black with powder, he has no hat, no epaulettes, and only half a sword. Rage, anguish, bitterness are in his husky voice as he adures and treats, calls to the demoralized army, and insults it, execrates it in turn, but nothing but death will stop that army now in its headlong flight. At least stop and see how a marshal of France dies on the field of honour, he calls, but the voice which led these same men to victory at Moscowa has lost its potency and its magic. The men cry Viva Ney, but they do not stand, the stampede has become general, in the valley below the infantry has started to run up the slope of Lebel Alliance, after it the cavalry with reins hanging loose, stirrups lost, casks, sabotages, muskets, anything that impedes, thrown into the fields to right and left, Lahae Saint is evacuated, Hugamont is abandoned, Papalot, Plansenoie, the woods, the plains, are only filled with running men and the thunder of galloping chargers, alone the old guard has remained unshaken, whilst all around them what was once the grand army is shattered, destroyed, melting like ice before a devastating fire, they have continued to advance, sublime in their fortitude, in their endurance, their contempt for death, one by one their columns are shattered and there are none now to replace those that fall, and as the gloom of night settles on this vast hecatome, on the plateau of Mont Saint-Jean, the conquerors of Gena and Austerlitz and Friedland make their last stand round the bronze eagle, all that is left to them of the glories of the past, and when from far away the cry of Savaikiput has become only an echo and the bronze eagle shattered by a bullet lies prone upon the ground, shielded against capture in its fall by a circling mountain of dead, when finally night wraps all the heroism, the glory, the sorrow and the horrors of this awful day in the sable folds of her all-embracing mantle, Napoleon's old guard has ceased to be, and out in the western sky a streak of vivid crimson, like human blood, has broken the bosom of the clouds, the glow of the sinking sun rests on this huge dissolution of what was once so glorious and unconquered and great. Then it is that Wellington rides to the very edge of the plateau and fronts the gallant British troops at this supreme hour of oncoming victory, and lifting his hat high above his head he waves it three times in the air, and from right and left they come, British, Hanoverians, Belgians and Brunswickers, to deliver the final blow to this retreating army wounded already unto death. They charge now, they charge all of them, cavalry, infantry, gunners, 40,000 men who have forgotten exhaustion, forgotten what they have suffered, forgotten what they had endured. On they come with a rush, like a torrent let loose, the confusion of sounds and sights becomes a pandemonium of hideousness, bugles and drums and trumpets and bagpipes all mingle, merge and die away in the fast-gathering twilight, and the tidal wave of steel recedes down the slopes of Mont Saint-Jean into the valley and thents up again on bell alliance with a melee of sounds, like the breaking of a gigantic line of surf against the irresistible cliffs, or the last drawn-out sigh of agony of dying giants in primeval times. On the road to Genopp in the mystery of the moonlight night a solitary rider turned into a field and dismounted, carried along for a time by the stream of the panic he found himself for a moment comparatively alone, left as it were high and dry by the same stream which here had divided and flowed on to right and left of him. He wore a gray redding coat and a shabby bighorn hat. Having dismounted he slipped the bridle over his arm and started to walk beside his horse back toward Waterloo, a sleepwalker in pursuit of his dream. Heavy banks of gray clouds chased one another with mad fury across the midsummer sky, now obscuring the cold face of the moon, now allowing her pale, silvery rays to light up this gigantic panorama of desolation and terror and misery. To right and left along the roads and lanes across grassland and cornfields, canals, ditches, and fences the last of the Grand Army was flying headlong, closely pursued by the Prussians. And at the farm of Labelle Alliance Wellington and Blucher had met and shaken hands and had thanked God for the great and glorious victory. But the sleepwalker went on in pursuit of his dream. He walked with measured steps beside his weary horse, his eyes fixed on the horizon far away, where the dull crimson glow of smoldering fires threw its last weird light upon this vast abode of the dead and the dying. He walked on slowly and mechanically back to the scene of the overwhelming cataclysm where all his hopes lay irretrievably buried. He walked on majestic as he had never been before in the brilliant throne room of the or the mystic vastness of Notre Dame. When the imperial crown set so ill upon his plebeian head, he walked on silent, exalted, and great, great through the magnitude of his downfall. And to right and left of him, like the surf that recedes on a pebbly beach, the last of his once invincible army was flying back to France, back in the wake of those who had been lucky enough to fly before, bodies of men who had been the last to realize that an heroic stand round a falling eagle could no longer win back that which was lost, and that if life be precious it could only be had in flight. Bits of human wreckage too, forgotten by the tide, they all rolled and rushed, and swept past the silent wafer. Quite close at times, so close that every man could see him quite distinctly, could easily distinguish by the light of the moon the gray redding goat and the battered hat which they all knew so well, which they had been want to see in the forefront of an hundred victorious charges. Now half-blinded by despair and by panic, they gazed with uncomprehending eyes on the man and on the horse, and merely shouted to him, as they rushed galloping or running by. The Prussians are honest, suave kipput, and the dreamer still looked on that distant crimson glow, and in the bosom of those wind-swept clouds he saw the pictures of Austerlitz and Jenna and Wagram, pictures of glory and might and victory, and the shouts which he heard were the ringing cheers round the bivouac fires of long ago.