 Chapter 4 Part 1 of THE BRONZ EGLE by Baroness Orksey. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Dion Giants, Celtic City, Utah. De Marmont, having successfully shot his poisoned arrow and brought down his enemy, had no longer any ill feeling against Clifford. His jealousy had been short-lived. It was set at rest by the brief episode which had culminated in the Englishman's final exit from the castle of Breastelow. Not a single detail of that moving little episode had escaped De Marmont's keen eyes. He had seen Crystal's look of positive abhorrence, wherewith she had regarded Clifford. He had seen the gathering up of her skirts away, as it were, from the contaminating propinquity of the English spy. And De Marmont was satisfied. He was perfectly ready to pick up the strained strands of friendship with the Englishman and affected not to notice the latter's absorption and moodiness. Can I drive you into Grenoble, my good Clifford? He asked eerily as he paused on the top of the parent's steps, waiting for the hackney coach. I thank you, replied Clifford. I prefer to walk. It is eight kilometers and a pitch dark night. I know my way. I thank you. Just as you like. He paused a moment and began humming the Marseille. Clifford started walking down the monumental steps. Well, I'll say good night, De Marmont, he said coldly, and goodbye, too. You are not going away, queried the other, as soon as I get the means of going. Troops will be on the move all over the country soon. Foreigners will be interned. You will have some difficulty in getting away. I know that. That's why I want to make arrangements as early as possible. Where will you stay in the meanwhile? Possibly at the Trois-Dafines, if I can get a room. I shall see you again then. The Emperor will stay there while he is in Grenoble. Well, good night, my dear friend, said De Marmont, as he extended a cordial hand to Clifford, who in the dark evidently failed to see it. And don't take the insults of all these fools too much to heart. And he gave an expressive nod in the direction of the stately castle behind him. They are doltes, he continued, eerily, if they possessed a grain of sense they would have kept on friendly terms with me. Was that old fool's son-in-law I could have saved him from all the reprisals which will inevitably fall on all these royalist traitors now that the Emperor has come into his own again? Clifford was half-way down the stone steps when these words of De Marmont struck upon his ear. Instinctively he retraced his steps. There was a suggestion of impending danger to Crystal in what the young man had said. What do you mean by talking about reprisals? He asked. Oh, only the inevitable replied De Marmont. The people of the Dauphin never cared for these royalists, you know, and didn't learn to like them any better in these past eleven months since the Restoration. Missour Lecomte de Cambre has been very high and mighty since his return from exile. He may yet come to wish that he had never quitted the comfortable little provincial town in England where he gave drawing lessons and French lessons to some very bourgeois boys. But here's that coach at last. He continued with that jaunty air which he had assumed since turning his back upon the reception halls of Bristolow. Are you sure that you would rather walk than drive with me? No, replied Clifford abruptly, I am not sure. Thank you very much. I think that if you don't object to my somewhat morose company I would like a lift as far as Grenoble. He wanted to make De Marmont talk, to hear what the young man had to say. From it he thought that he could learn more accurately what danger would threaten Bristolow in the event of Napoleon's successful march to Paris. That the great adventurer's triumph would be short-lived, Clifford was perfectly sure. He knew the temper of England and believed in the military genius of Wellington. England would never tolerate for a moment longer than she could help that the firebrand of Europe should once more sit upon the throne of France, and unless the Allies had greatly altered their policy in the past ten months and refused England the necessary support, England would be more than a match for the decimated army of Bonaparte. But a few weeks, months perhaps, might elapse before Napoleon was once again put entirely out of action, and this time more completely and more effectually than with a small kingdom wherein to dream again of European conquests. During those weeks and months Bristolow and its inhabitants would be at the mercy of the man from Corsica, the island of unrest and of never-sleeping vendetta. De Marmont was ready enough to talk. He knew nothing, of course, of Napoleon's plans and ideas save what Emery had told him. But what he lacked in knowledge he more than made up in imagination. De Marmont, too, had made him valuable. He talked freely and incessantly. The Emperor would do this. The Emperor will never tolerate that, was all the time on his lips. He bragged and he swaggered, launched into passionate eulogies of the Emperor and fiery denunciations of his enemies, Berthier, Clark, Foucher, De Marmont, they all deserved death. Nay alone was to be pardoned, for Nay was a fine soldier, always supposing that Nay would repent. But men like the Comte de Cambre were a pest in any country, mischief-making and intriguing. Bah! The Emperor will never tolerate them. Suddenly Clifford, who had become half drowsy, lulled to somnolence by De Marmont's incessant chatter and the monotonous jog trot of the horses, woke to complete consciousness. He pricked his ears and in a moment was all attention. They think that they can deceive me, De Marmont was saying eerily. They think that I am as great a fool as they are, with their talk of Madame Le Duchess's journey north directly after the wedding. Bah! Any dolt can put two and two together. The Comte tells me in one breath that he had a visit from Fourier in the afternoon, and that the Duchess, who only arrived in Brestelo yesterday, would leave again for Paris on the day after tomorrow. And he tells it me with a mysterious air, and adds a knowing wink and a promise that he would explain himself more fully later on. I could have laughed if it were not all so miserably stupid. He paused for want of breath and tried to peer through the window of the coach. It is pitch dark, he said, but we can't be very far from this city now. I don't see, rejoined Clifford, ostentatiously smothering Ayon, what Missour Le Profet's visit to Brestelo had to do with the Duchess's journey to the north. You have got intrigues on the brain, my good De Marmont, and with well feigned indifference he settled himself more cosily into the dark corner of the carriage. De Marmont laughed, what Fourier's afternoon visit has to do with Madame D'Agin's journey, he retorted. I'll tell you, my good Clifford, Fourier went to see Missour Le Comte de Cambre this afternoon, because he is a paltrune. He is terrified at the thought that the unfortunate Empress's money and treasure are still lying in the cellars of the Hotel de Ville, and he went out to Brestelo in order to consult with the Comte what had best be done with the money. I didn't know the ex-Empress's money was lying in the cellar of the Hotel de Ville, marked Clifford with well assumed indifference, nor did I, until Emery told me, rejoined De Marmont, the money is there, though, stolen from the Empress Marie Louise by that arch in Trigger, Talleyrand, twenty-five millions in notes and drafts, the Emperor reckons on it for current expenses until he has reached Paris and taken over the Treasury. Even then I don't see what Madame Le Duchess de Agne has to do with it. You don't, said De Marmont dryly, but I did in a moment. Fourier wouldn't keep the money at the Hotel de Ville. The Comte de Cambre would not allow it to be deposited in his house. They both want the bourbon to have it, so in order to lull suspicion, they have decided that Madame Le Duchess shall take the money to Paris. Well, perhaps, said Clifford with a yawn, but are we not in Grenoble yet? Once more he lapsed into silence, closed his eyes, and to all intents and purposes fell asleep, for never another word did De Marmont get out of him until Grenoble was reached and the Rue Montorge. Here De Marmont had his lodgings three doors from the Hotel des Tra Dauphines, where fortunately Clifford managed to secure a comfortable room for himself. He parted quite amicably from De Marmont, promising to call in upon him in the morning. It would be foolish to quarrel with that young windbag now. He knew some things and talked of a great many more. Preparations against the arrival of the Corsican ogre were proceeding apace. General Marchand had been overconfident throughout the day, which was the 5th of March. The troops, he said, were loyal to a man. They were coming in fast from Chambord and Vienne. The garrison would and could repulse that band of pirates and take upon itself to fulfill the promise which Ney had made to the king, namely to bring the ogre to his majesty bound and gagged in an iron cage. But the following day, which was the 6th, many things occurred to shake the commandant's confidence. Napoleon's proclamation was not only posted up all over the town, but the citizens were distributing the printed leaflets among themselves. One of the officers on the staff pointed out to General Marchand that the 4th Regiment of Artillery, quartered in Grenoble, was the one in which Bonaparte had served as a lieutenant during the revolution. The men, it was argued, would never turn their arms against one whom they had never ceased to idolize. It would not be safe to march out into the open with men whose loyalty was so very doubtful. There was a rumor current in the town that when the men of the 5th Regiment of Engineers and the 4th of Artillery were told that Napoleon had only 1100 men with him, they all murmured with one accord, and what about us? Therefore General Marchand, taking all these facts into consideration, made up his mind to await the ogre inside the walls of Grenoble. Here at any rate, defections and desertions would be less likely to occur than in the field. He set to work to organize the city into a state of defense. Forty-seven guns were put in position upon the ramparts, which dominate the road to the south, and he sent a company of engineers and a battalion of infantry to blow up the bridge of Pont-Haut at La Mer. The royalists in the city, who were beginning to feel very anxious, had assembled in force to cheer these troops as they marched out of the city. But the attitude of the supports created a very unpleasant impression. They marched out in disorder. Some of them tore the white cockade from their sheikos, and one or two cries of Viva l'Empereur were distinctly heard in their ranks. At La Mer, Massaur La Mer argued very strongly against the destruction of the bridge of Pont-Haut. It would be absurd, he said, to blow up a valuable bridge, since not one kilometer away there was an excellent ford across which Napoleon could march his troops with perfect ease. The supports murmured and assent, and their officer, Colonel de la Sartre, feeling the temper of his men, did not dare insist. He quartered them at La Mer to await the arrival of the infantry and further orders from General Marchand. When the fifth regiment of infantry was reported to have reached La Fray, de la Sartre had the sepurs out and marched out to meet them, although it was then close upon midnight. While de la Sartre and his troops encamped at La Fray, Cambron, who was in command of Napoleon's vanguard, himself occupied La Mer. This was on the seventh. The mayor, who had so strongly protested against the destruction of the bridge of Pont-Haut, gathered the population around him, and in a body men, women, and children marched out of the borough along the corps' sister-on-road in order to give the emperor a rousing welcome. It was still early morning. Napoleon at the head of his old guard entered La Mer. A veritable ovation greeted him. One pressed round him to see him or touch his horse, his coat, his stirrups. He spoke to the people and held the mayor and municipal officials in long conversation. Just as practically everywhere else on his route, he had won over every heart. But his small column, which had been eleven hundred strong when he landed at Joanne, was still only eleven hundred strong. He had only rallied four recruits to his standard. True he had met with no opposition. True that the peasantry of the Dauphin had loudly acclaimed him, had listened to his harangues and presented him with flowers, but he had not had a single encounter with any garrison on his way. Or could he boast of any defections in his favor? Now he was nearing Grenoble, Grenoble which was strongly fortified and well garrisoned, and Grenoble would be the winning or losing cast of this great gamble for the sovereignty of France. It was close on eleven when the great adventurer set out upon this momentous stage of his journey. The Polish lancers leading, then the chasseurs of his old guard, with their time worn grey coats and heavy bearskins. Some of them were on foot, others packed closely together in wagons and carts, which the enthusiastic agriculturalists of La Mer had placed at the disposal of the emperor. Man himself followed in his coach, his horse being led along, amidst thundering cries of godspeed the small column started on its way. As for the rest, tis in the domain of history every phase of it has been put on record. Dela Sartre worried in his mind that he had not been able to obey General Marchand's orders and destroy the bridge of Pont Haute, his desire to communicate once more with the general, his decision to await further orders and in the meanwhile to occupy the narrow defile of La Fraye as being an advantageous position wherein to oppose the advance of the ogre, all this on the one side, on the other the advance of the Polish lancers of the carts and wagons wherein are crowded the soldiers of the old guard, and Napoleon himself, the great gambler, sitting in his coach, gazing out through the open windows at the fair land of France, the peaceful valley on his left, the chain of ice-covered lakes and the turbulent draught on his right beyond the hills frowning telepher, snow-capped and pine clad, and far ahead Grenoble still hidden from his view as the future too was still hidden, the mysterious gate beyond which lay glory and an empire, or the ignominemy of irretrievable failure. History has made a record of it all, and it is not the purpose of this true chronicle to do more than recall with utmost brevity the chief incident of that memorable encounter, the Polish lancers galloping back with the report that the narrow pass was held against them in strong force, the old guard climbing helter-skelter out of carts and wagons examining their arms making ready, Napoleon stepping quickly out of his coach and mounting his charger. On the other side, Delecarte holding hurried consultation with the vicomte de Saint-Jeanus, whom General Marchand has dispatched to him with orders to shoot the brigand and his horde as he would a pack of wolves. Napoleon is easily recognizable in the distance with his gray overcoat, his white horse and his bicorne hat. Presently he dismounts and walks up and down across the narrow road evidently in a state of great mental agitation. Delecarte's men are sullen and silent. A crowd of men and women from Grenoble have followed them up thus far. They work their way in and out among the infantrymen. They have printed leaflets in their hands which they cram one by one into the hands or pockets of the soldiers, copies of Napoleon's proclamation. Now an officer of the old guard is seen to ride up the pass. Delecarte recognizes him. They were brothers in arms two years ago and served together under the greatest military genius the world has ever known. Napoleon has sent the man on as an emissary but Delecarte will not allow him to speak. I mean to do my duty, he declares, but in his voice too there has already crept that note of sullenness which characterized the supports from the first. Then Captain Raoul, own aid camp to Napoleon, comes up at full gallop, nor does he draw rain till he is up with the entire front of Delecarte's battalion. Your emperor is coming. He shouts to the soldiers, if you fire, the first shot will reach him and France will make you answerable for this outrage. While he shouts and harangs, the men are still sullen and silent and in the distance the lances of the Polish cavalry gleam in the sun and the shaggy bearskins of the old guard are seen to move forward up the pass. Delecarte casts a rapid piercing glance over his men. Sullenness had given plays to obvious terror. Right about turn, quick march he commands. Resistance obviously would be useless with these men who are on the verge of laying down their arms. He forces on a quick march, but the Polish lancers are already gaining ground. The sound of their horses hooves stamping the frozen ground, the snorting, the clanging of arms is distinctly heard. Delecarte now has no option. He must make his men turn once more and face the ogre and his battalion before they are attacked in the rear. As soon as the order is given and the two little armies stand face to face, the Polish lancers halt and the old guard stand still. And it almost seems, for the moment, as if nature herself stood still and listened and looked on. The genial midday sun is slowly melting the snow on pine trees and rocks. One by one the glistening tiny crystals blink and vanish under the warmth of the kiss. The hard white road darkens under the thaw and slowly a thin covering of water spreads over the icy crust of the lakes. Napoleon tells Colonel Mallet to order the men to lower their arms. Mallet protests, but Napoleon reiterates the command more peremptorily this time, and Mallet must obey. Then at the head of his old chasseurs, thus practically disarmed, the emperor, and he is every inch an emperor, now walks straight up to Delasart's opposing troops. Hot-headed St. Jenna's cries, here he is, fire in heaven's name. But these supports, the old regiment in which Napoleon had served as a young lieutenant in those glorious olden days, are now as pale as death, their knees shake under them, their arms tremble in their hands, at ten paces away from the foremost ranks. Napoleon halts. Soldiers, he cries loudly, here I am, your emperor, do you know me? Again he advances, and with a calm gesture throws open his well-worn gray red-and-goat. Fire, cries St. Jenna's in mad exasperation. Fire commands Delasart in a voice rendered shaky with overmastering emotion. Silence reigns supreme. Napoleon still advances step by step, his red-and-goat thrown open, his broad chest challenging the first bullet which would dare to end the bold, adventurous, daring life. Is there one of you soldiers here who wants to shoot his emperor? If there is, here I am, fire. Which of these soldiers who have served under him at Jenna and Austerlitz could resist such a call? His voice has lost nothing yet of its charm, his personality, nothing of its magic, ambitious, ruthless, selfish, he may be, but to the army, a friend, a comrade, as well as a god. Suddenly this silence is broken. Shouts of Viva la Emperor rend the air, they echo down the narrow valley, re-echo from hill to hill, and reverberate upon the pine-clad heights of Telefer. Broken are the ranks, white caucades fly in every direction, tricolors appear in their hundreds everywhere, shakos are waved on the points of the bayonets, and always, always that cry, Viva la Emperor. Supers and infantrymen crowd around the little man in the worn gray, redding coat, and he, with that rough familiarity which bound all soldiers' hearts to him, ceases an old sergeant by the ends of his long moustache. So, you old dog, he says, you were going to shoot your emperor, were you? Not me, replies the man with a growl, look at our guns, not one of them was loaded. Delasart, in despair, yet shaken to the heart, his eyes swimming in tears, offers his sword to Napoleon, whereupon the emperor grasps his hand in friendship and comforts him with a few inspiring words. Only St. Janus has looked on all this scene with horror and contempt. His royalist opinions are well known. His urgent appeal to Delasart a while ago to shoot the brigand and his hordes still rings in every soldier's ear. He is half crazy with rage, and there is quite an element of terror in the confused thoughts which crowd in upon his brain. Already the supports and infantrymen have joined the ranks of the old guard, and Napoleon, with that inimitable verve and inspiring eloquence of which he was past master, was haranguing his troops. Just then three horsemen dressed in the uniform of officers of the national guard, and wearing enormous tricolor cockades as large as soup plates on their chakos, are seen to arrive at a break-neck gallop down the pass from Grenoble. St. Janus recognized them at a glance. They were Victor de Marmont, surgeon Captain Emery, and their friend, the glovemaker Doumalin. The next moment these three men were at the feet of their beloved hero. Sire said, Doumalin, the glovemaker, in the name of the citizens of Grenoble, we hereby offer you our services and one hundred thousand francs collected in the last twenty-four hours for your use. I accept both, replied the emperor, while he grasped vigorously the hands of his three most devoted friends. St. Janus uttered a loud and comprehensive curse, then he pulled his horse abruptly round and with such a jerk that it reared and plunged madly forward ere it started galloping away with its frantic rider in the direction of Grenoble. And Grenoble itself was in a turmoil. In the barracks the cries of Viva, la Emperor, were incessant. General Marchand was indefatigable in his efforts to still that cry, to rouse in the hearts of the soldiers a sense of loyalty to the king. Your country and your king, he shouted from barrack room to barrack room. Our country and our emperor responded the soldiers with ever-growing enthusiasm. The spirit of the army and of the people were bonapartist to the core. They had never trusted either Marchand or prophet Fourier, who had turned their coats so readily at the restoration. They hated the emigres, the Comte de Cambre, the Vicomte de St. Janus, the Duke de Embrun, with their old-fashioned ideas of the semi-divine rites of the nobility second only to the godlike ones of the king. They thought them arrogant and untamed, over-ready to grab once more all the privileges which a bloody revolution had swept away. To them Napoleon, despite the brilliant days of the empire, despite his autocracy, his militarism, and his arrogance represented the people, the advanced spirit of the revolution. His downfall had meant a return to the old regime, the regime of feudal rites, of farmers general, of heavy taxation, and dear bread. Viva la Emperor was cried in the barracks and Viva la Emperor at the street corners. A squadron of hussars had marched into Grenoble from Vienne just before noon, the same squadron which a few months ago at a review by the Comte de Artois in the presence of the king had shouted, Viva la Emperor, what faith could be put in their loyalty now. But two infantry regiments came in at the same time, from Shambhuri, and on these, General Marchand hoped to be able to reckon. The Comte Charles de la Betoyer was in command of the Seventh Regiment, and though he had served in Prussia under Napoleon, he had tendered his oath loyally to Louis the Eighteenth at the Restoration. He was a tried and able soldier, and Marchand believed in him. The General himself reviewed both infantry regiments on the Plas de Armes on their arrival, and then posted them upon the ramparts of the city facing direct to the southeast, and dominating the road to La Mer. De la Betoyer remained in command of the Seventh. For two hours he paced the ramparts in a state of the greatest possible agitation. The nearness of Napoleon, of the man who had been his comrade in arms first, and his leader afterwards, had a terribly disturbing effect upon his spirit. From below in the city, the people's mutterings, their grumbling, their sullen excitement, seemed to rise upwards like an intoxicating incense. The attitude of the troops, of the gunners, as well as of the garrison and of his own regiment, worked more potently still upon the colonels' already shaken loyalty. Then suddenly his mind is made up. He draws his sword and shouts, Viva la Emperor. Soldiers, he calls, follow me, I will show you the way to duty, follow me, Viva la Emperor. Viva la Emperor, vociferate the troops. After me, my men, to the bon gate, after me, cries De la Betoyer. And to the shouts of Viva la Emperor, the Seventh Regiment of Infantry passes through the gate and marches along the streets of the suburb on towards La Mer. General Marchand hastily apprised of the wholesale defection sends Colonel Villiers in hot haste in the wake of De la Betoyer. Villiers comes up with the latter two kilometers outside Grenoble. He talks, he persuades, he admonishes, he scolds. De la Betoyer and his men are firm. Your country and your king shouts Villiers. Our country and our emperor respond the men. And they go to join the old guard at La Fré, while Villiers, in despair, rides back into Grenoble. In the town the desertion of the Seventh has had a very serious effect. The muttered cries of Viva la Emperor are open shouts now. General Marchand is at his wits, and he has ordered the closing of every city gate. And still the soldiers in batches of tens and twenty's at a time contrive to escape out of the town, carrying their arms and in many cases baggage with them. The royalist faction, the women as well as the men spend the whole day in and out of the barrick rooms talking to the men, trying to infuse into them loyalty to the king, and to cheer them up by bringing them wine and provisions. In the afternoon the vicomte de St. Genus, sick, exhausted, his horse covered with lather, comes back with the story of the pass of La Fré, and Napoleon's triumphant march toward Grenoble. Marchand seriously contemplates evacuating the city in order to save the garrison and his stores. Prophet Fourier congratulates himself on his foresight and on that he has transferred the twenty-five million francs from the cellars of the Hotel de Ville into the safekeeping of Massour Lacombe de Cambrai. He and General Marchand both hope and think that the brigand and his horde cannot possibly be at the gates of Grenoble before the morrow, and that Madame Laduches de Agine would be well on her way to Paris with the money by that time. Marchand, in the meanwhile, has made up his mind to retire from the city with his troops. It is only a strategical measure, he argues, to save bloodshed and to save his stores pending the arrival of the Compte de Artois at Lyons with the Army Corps. He gives the order for the general retreat to commence at two o'clock in the morning. Satisfied that he has done the right thing, he finally goes back to his quarters in the Hotel du Dauphin, close to the ramparts. The Compte de Cambrai is his guest at dinner, and toward seven o'clock the two men at last sit down to a hurried meal, both their minds filled with apprehension and not a little fear as to what the next few days will bring. It is, of course, only a question of time, says the Compte de Cambrai eerily. Monsignor Lacombe de Artois will be at Lyons directly with forty thousand men, and he will easily crush that marauding band of pirates. But this time the Corsican after his defeat must be put more effectually out of harm's way. I personally was never much in favor of Elba. The English have some islands out in the Atlantic or the Pacific responds General Marchand with firm decision. It would be safest to shoot the brigand, but failing that, let the English send him to one of those islands and undertake to guard him well. Let us drink to that proposition, my dear Marchand, concludes Messor Lacombe with a smile. Hardly had the two men concluded this toast when a fearful din is heard, regular howls proceeding from the suburb of Bonn. The windows of the hotel give on the ramparts and the house itself dominates the Bonn gate and the military ground beyond it. Hastily Marchand jumps up from the table and throws open the window. He and the Comte step out upon the balcony. The din has become deafening with a hand that slightly trembles now. General Marchand points to the extensive grounds that lie beyond the city gate, and Messor Lacombe quickly smothers an exclamation of terror. A huge crowd of peasants armed with scythes and carrying torches which flicker in the frosty air have invaded the slopes and flats of the military zone. They are yelling Viva la Emperor at the top of their voices, and from walls and bastions reverberates the answering cry Viva la Emperor, vociferated by infantrymen and gunners and suppors, and echoed and re-echoed with passionate enthusiasm by the people of Grenoble assembled in their thousands in the narrow streets which abut upon the ramparts, and in the midst of the peasantry surrounded by them as by a cordon, Napoleon and his small army, just reinforced by the seventh regiment of infantry, have halted, expectant. Napoleon's aid to camp, Capitan Raoul, accompanied by half a dozen Lancers, comes up to the palisade which bars the immediate approach to the city gates. Open he cries loudly, so loudly that his young, firm voice rises above the tumult around. Open in the name of the Emperor, Marchand sees it all, he hears the commanding summons, hears the thunderous and enthusiastic cheers which greet Capitan Raoul's call to surrender. He and the comped de Cambrai are still standing upon the balcony of the hotel that faces the gate of Bonn and dominates from its high ground the ramparts opposite. White-cheeked and silent the two men have gazed before them and have understood. To attempt to stem this tide of popular enthusiasm would inevitably be fatal. The troops inside Grenoble were as ready to cross over to the Brigham standard as was Colonel de La Bettauere's regiment of infantry. The ramparts and the surrounding military zone were lit up by hundreds of torches, by their flickering light the two men on the balcony could see the faces of the people and those of the soldiers who were even now being ordered to fire upon Raoul and the Lancers. Colonel Ruseel, who is in command of the troops at the gate, sends a hasty messenger to General Marchand. The brigand demands that we open the gate, reports the messenger breathlessly. Tell the Colonel to give the order to fire, is Marchand's peremptory response. Are you coming with me, Messor Lacompt? He asks hurriedly, but he does not wait for a reply. Wrapping his cloak around him, he goes in the wake of the messenger. Messor Lacompt de Cambre is close on his heels. Five minutes later the general is up on the ramparts. He has thrown a quick, piercing glance round him. There are two thousand men up here, twenty guns, ammunition in plenty, out there only peasants and a heterogeneous band of some fifteen hundred men. One shot from a gun, perhaps, would send all that crowd flying. The first fuselage might scatter the band of brigands, but Marchand cannot, dare not, give the positive order to fire. He knows that rank in subordination, positive refusal to obey, would follow. He talks to the men. He harangs. He begs them to defend their city against this horde of Corsican pirates. To every word he says, the man but oppose the one cry, viva la Emperor. The Compt de Cambre turns in despair to Messor de St. Genesis, who is a captain of artillery, and whose men had hitherto been supposed to be tried and loyal, royalists. If the men won't fire, Maurice asks the Compt in despair, cannot the officers at least fire the first shot. Messor Lacompt replies St. Genesis through set teeth, for his heart was filled with wrath and shame at the defection of his men. The gunners have declared that if the officers shoot, the men will shatter them to pieces with their own batteries. The crowds outside the gate itself are swelling visibly. They press in from every side toward the city, loudly demanding the surrender of the town. Open the gates, open they shout, and their clamour becomes more insistent every moment. Already they have broken down the palisades which surround the military zone. They pour down the slopes against the gate. But the latter is heavy and massive, studded with iron, stoutly resisting axe or pick. Open they cry, open in the Emperor's name. They are within hailing distance of the soldiers on the ramparts. What price your plums, they shout gaily to the gunners. Quite cheap, retort the latter with equal gaiety, but there's no danger of the Emperor getting any. The women sing the old couplet. Bonn, bonn, Napoleon. Va rentre, donn, son, son. And the soldiers on the ramparts take up the refrain. Nos allons voilagrand, Napoleon. La vainqueur de touts les nations. What can we do, M. Le Comte, says General Marchand, at last. We shall have to give in. I'll not stay and see it, replies the Comte. I should die of shame. Even while the two men are talking and discussing the possibilities of an early surrender, Napoleon himself has forced his way through the tumultuous throng of his supporters, and accompanied by Victor de Marmont and Colonel de la Bedoyer, he advances as far as the gate, which still stands barred defiantly against him. I command you to open this gate, he cries aloud. Colonel Roussill, who is in command, replies defiantly, I only take orders from the General himself. He is relieved of his command, retorts Napoleon. I know my duty, insists Roussill. I only take orders from the General. Victor de Marmont, intoxicated with his own enthusiasm, maddened with rage at sight of St. Genus, whose face is just then thrown into vivid light by the glare of the torches, cries wildly. Soldiers of the Emperor, who are being forced to resist him, turn on those treacherous officers of yours, tear off their epaulettes. I say, his shrill and frantic cries seem to precipitate the inevitable climax. The tumult has become absolutely delirious. The soldiers on the ramparts tumble over one another in a mad rush for the gate, which they try to break open with the butt end of their rifles. But they dare not actually attack their own officers, and in any case they know that the keys of the city are still in the hands of General Marchand, and General Marchand has suddenly disappeared. Feeling the hopelessness and futility of further resistance, he has gone back to his hotel, and is even now giving orders and making preparations for leaving Grenoble. Prefet Fourier, hastily summoned, is with him, and the Comte de Cambre is preparing to return immediately to Breastelot. We shall all leave for Paris tomorrow as early as possible, he says, as he finally takes leave of the General and the Prefet, and take the money with us, of course, if the King, which God forbid, is obliged to leave Paris, it will be most acceptable to him, until the day when the Allies are once more in the field and ready to crush, irretrievably this time, this Corsican scourge of Europe. One or two of the royalist officers have succeeded in massing together some two or three hundred men out of several regiments, who appear to be determined to remain loyal. St. Janus is not among these. His men had been among the first to cry, Viva, l'Empereur, when ordered to fire on the brigand and his hordes, they had even gone so far as to threaten their officers' lives. Now, covered with shame and boiling with wrath at the defection, St. Janus asks leave of the General to escort Massour Le Comte de Cambre and his party to Paris. We shall be better off for extra protection, urges Massour Le Comte de Cambre in support of St. Janus's plea for leave. I shall only have the coachman and two postillions with me. Massour de St. Janus would be of immense assistance in case of foot-pads. The road to Paris is quite safe, I believe, says General Marchand, and at Lyons you will meet the army of Massour Le Comte de Artois, but perhaps Massour de St. Janus had better accompany you as far as there at any rate. He can then report himself at Lyons. Twenty-five millions is a large sum, of course, but the purpose of your journey has remained a secret, has it not? Of course, says Massour Le Comte, unhesitatingly, for he has completely erased Victor de Marmont from his mind. Well then, all you need fear is an attack from foot-pads, and even that is unlikely, concludes General Marchand, who by now is in a great hurry to go. But Massour de St. Janus has my permission to escort you. The General entrusts the keys of the Bond Gate to Colonel Roussille. He has barely time to execute his hasty flight, having arranged to escape out of Grenoble by the St. Laurent Gate on the north of the town. In the meanwhile, a carter from the suburb of St. Joseph outside the Bond Gate has harnessed a team of horses to one of his wagons and brought along a huge joist. Twenty pairs of willing and stout arms are already manipulating this powerful engine for the breaking open of the resisting gate. Already the doors are giving way, the hinges creak, and while General Marchand and Prefet Fourier, with their small body of faithful soldiers, rush precipitately across the deserted streets of the town, Colonel Roussille makes ready to open the Gate of Bond to the Emperor and to his soldiers. My regiment was prepared to turn against me, he says to his men, but I shall not turn against them. Then he formally throws open the Gate. Ecstatic delight, joyful enthusiasm, succeeds the frantic cries of a while ago. Napoleon entering the city of Grenoble was nearly crushed to death by the frenzy of the crowd, cheered to the echoes surrounded by a delirious populace which hardly allowed him to move. It was hours before he succeeded in reaching the Hotel d'Estroy d'Affines, where he was resolved to spend the night, since it was kept by an ex-soldier, one of his own old guard of the Italian campaign. The enthusiasm was kept up all night, the town was illuminated, until dawn men and women paraded the streets, singing the Marseilles and shouting viva l'Empereur. In a small room, simply furnished, but cozy and comfortable, the great adventurer, who had conquered half the world and lost it, and had now set out to conquer it again, sat with half a dozen of his most faithful friends, Cambron and Raoul, Victor de Marmont and Emery. On the table, spread out before him, was an ordinance map of the province, his clenched hand rested upon it, his eyes, those eagle-like piercing eyes which had so often called his soldiers to victory, gazed out straight before him, as if through the bare, white-washed walls of this humble hotel room, he saw the vision of the brilliant halls of the Tullaris, the imperial throne, the empress beside him, all her faithlessness and pucil animity forgiven, his son whom he worshipped, his marshals grouped around him, and with a gesture of proud defiance, he threw back his head and said loudly, until today I was only an adventurer, tonight I am a prince once more. It was the next morning in that same sparsely furnished and uncarpeted room of the hotel d'Astois de Fines that Napoleon spoke to Victor de Marmont, to Emery and Dumoulin about the money which had been stolen last year from the empress and which he understood had been deposited in the cellars of the Hotel de Ville. I am not going, he said, to Levy a war tax on my good city of Grenoble, but my good and faithful soldiers must be paid, and I must provision my army in case I encounter stronger resistance at Lyons than I can cope with, and am forced to make a detour. I want the money, the empress's money, which that infamous tally-rand stole from her. So you, de Marmont, had best go straight away to the Hotel de Ville, and in my name summoned the prophet to appear before me. You can tell him at once that it is on account of the money. I will go at once, sire, replied de Marmont, with a regretful sigh, but I fear me that it is too late. Too late, snapped out the emperor with a frown. What do you mean by too late? I mean that Fourier has left Grenoble in the trail of Marchand, and that two days ago, unless I am very much mistaken, he disposed of the money. Disposed of the money? You are mad, de Marmont. Not altogether, sire. When I say that Fourier disposed of the empress's money, I only mean that he deposited it in what he would deem a safe place. The cur, exclaimed Napoleon, with a yet tighter clenching of his hand and mighty fist, turning against the hand that fed him and made him what he is. Well, he added impatiently, where is the money now? In the keeping of Moussour le Comte de Cambre at Breastelot, replied de Marmont, without hesitation. Very well, said the emperor, take a company of the seventh regiment with you to Breastelot, and requisition the money at once. If, as I believe, the Comte no longer has the money by him, make him tell you where it is. I mean, sire, that it is my belief that Moussour le Comte's sister and daughter will undertake to take the money to Paris, hoping by their sex and general error of innocence to escape suspicion in connection with the money. Don't worry me with all these details, de Marmont, broken Napoleon, with a frown of impatience. I told you to take a company with you and to get me the empress's money. See to it that this is done, and leave me in peace. He hated arguing, hated opposition, the very suggestion of any difficulty. His followers and intimates knew that. Already, de Marmont had repented that he had allowed his tongue to ramble on quite so much. Now he felt that silence must redeem his blunder, silence now, and success in his undertaking. He bent the knee for this homage, the great Corsican adventurer, and one-time dictator of civilized Europe, loved to receive. He kissed the hand which had once wielded the scepter of a mighty empire, and was ready now to grasp it again. Then he rose and gave the military salute. It shall be done, Sire, was all that he said. His heart was full of enthusiasm, and the task allotted to him was a congenial one, the baffling and discomforture of those who had insulted him. If, as he believed, Crystal would be accompanying her aunt on the journey toward Paris, then indeed would his own longing for some sort of revenge for the humiliation which he had endured on that memorable Sunday evening be fully gratified. It was with a light and swinging stout that he ran down the narrow stairs of the hotel. In the little entrance hall below he met Clifford. In his usual impulsive way, without thought of what had gone before, or was likely to happen in the future, he went up to the Englishman without stretched hand. My dear Clifford, he said with unaffected cordiality, I am glad to see you. I have been wondering what had become of you since we parted on Sunday last. My dear friend, he added ecstatically what glorious events, eh? He did not wait for Clifford's reply, nor did he appear to notice the latter's obvious coldness of manner, but went prattling on with great volubility. What a man, he exclaimed, nodding significantly in the direction whence he had just come. A six-days march, mostly on foot, and along steep mountain paths, and today as fresh and vigorous as if he had just spent a month's holiday at some pleasant watering place. What luck to be serving such a man, and what luck to be able to render him really useful service. The tables will be turned, eh? My dear Clifford, he added, giving his taciturn friend a jovial dig in the ribs. And what lovely discomforture for our proud aristocrats, eh? They will be sorry to have made an enemy of Victor de Marmont. What? Whereupon Clifford made a violent effort to appear friendly and jovial, too. Why, he said with a pleasant laugh, what madcap ideas are floating through your head now. Madcap schemes, ejaculated de Marmont, nothing more or less, my dear Clifford, than complete revenge for the humiliation those de Cambres put upon me last Sunday. Revenge, that sounds exciting, said Clifford with a smile, even while his palm itched to slap the young Braggart's face. Exciting, pardue. Of course it will be exciting. They have no idea that I guessed their little machinations. Madame Laduches de Agin traveling to Paris for soothe I, but with five and twenty millions sewn somewhere inside her petticoats, well, the Emperor happens to want his own five and twenty millions, if you please. So Madame Laduches, or Moussour Lacombe, will have to disgorge, and I shall have the pleasing task of making them disgorge. What say you to that, friend Clifford? That I am sorry for you, replied the other dryly. Sorry for me, why? Because it is never a pleasing task to bully a defenseless woman and an old one at that. De Marmont laughed aloud, bully Madame Laduches de Agin, he exclaimed, Sacré tonnerre, what do you take me for? I shall not bully her. Fifty soldiers don't bully a defenseless woman. We shall treat Madame Laduches with every consideration. We shall only remove five and twenty millions of stolen money from her carriage. That is all. You may be mistaken about the money, De Marmont. It may be anywhere except in the keeping of Madame Laduches. It may be at the Château de Brestelo in the keeping of Moussour Lacombe de Cambrai, and this I shall find out first of all. But I must not stand gossiping any longer. I must see Colonel De La Bedoyer and get the men I want. What are your plans, my dear Clifford? The same as before, replied Bobby quietly, I shall leave Grenoble as soon as I can. Let the Emperor send you on a special mission to Lord Grenville, in London, to urge England to remain neutral in the coming struggle. I think not, said Clifford enigmatically. De Marmont did not wait to ask him to what this brief remark had applied. He bade his friend a hasty farewell, then he turned on his heel, and gaily whistling the refrain of the Marseille stalked out of the hotel. Clifford remained standing in the narrow, paneled hall, which just then reeked strongly of stewed onions and of hot coffee. He never moved a muscle, but remained absolutely quiet for the space of exactly two minutes. Then he consulted his watch. It was then close on midday, and finally went back to his room. An hour after dawn, that self-same morning, the traveling coach of Moussour Lacombe de Cambrai was at the parent of the Chateau de Brestelo. At the last moment, when Moussour Lacombe, hopelessly discouraged by the surrender of Grenoble to the usurper, came home at a late hour of the night, he decided that he too would journey to Paris with his sister and daughter, taking the money with him to his majesty, who indeed would soon be in sore need of funds. At the same late hour of the night, Moussour Lacombe discovered that with the exception of Faithful Hector, and one or two scullions in the kitchen, his male servants, both indoor and out, had wandered in a body out to Grenoble to witness the emperor's entry into the city. They had marched out of the Chateau to the cry of Viva l'Empereur, and outside the gates had joined a number of villagers of Brestelo who were bent on the same errand. Fortunately, one of the coachmen and two of the older grooms from the stables returned in the early dawn after the street demonstrations outside the emperor's windows had somewhat calmed down, and with the routine of many years of domestic service had promptly and without murmurings set to to obey the orders given to them the day before, to have the traveling berline ready with four horses by seven o'clock. It was very cold. The coachmen and postilians shivered under their threadbare liveries. The coachmen had wrapped a woollen comforter round his neck and pulled his white beaver broad-brimmed hat well over his brows, as the northeast wind was keen, and would blow into his face all the way to Lyons, where the party would halt for the night. He had thick woollen gloves on and of his entire burly person only the tip of his nose could be seen between his muffler and the brim of his hat. The postilians, whip in hand, could not wrap themselves up quite so snugly. They were trying to keep themselves warm by beating their arms against their chest. Messor Lacombe, aided by Hector, was arranging for the disposal of leather wallets underneath the cushions of the carriage. The wallets contained the money, twenty-five millions in notes and drafts. A god send to the king if the usurper did succeed in driving him out of the tularies. Presently the ladies came down the parent stout with faithful jean in attendance, who carried small bags and dressing cases. Both the ladies were wrapped in long, fur-lined cloaks, and Madame LaDuchess de Agin had drawn a hood closely round her face. But crystal the cambray stood bare-headed in the cold frosty air, the hood of her cloak thrown back, her own fair hair dressed high, forming the only covering for her head.