Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II. Lever Charles James

of the cavalry regiments as suffered least in the battle were under arms; while the generals of division received orders to have their respective staffs fully equipped and mounted, as if on a day of review.

      It was late in the afternoon when the word was passed along the lines to stand to arms; and the moment after a calèche, drawn by six horses, passed in full gallop, and took the road towards Austerlitz. The return of the Austrian envoy set a thousand conjectures in motion, and all were eager to find out what had been the result of his mission.

      “We must soon learn it all,” said an old colonel of artillery near me. “If the game be war, we shall be called up to assist Davoust’s movement on Göding. The Russians have but one line of retreat, and that is already in our possession.”

      “I cannot for the life of me understand the Emperor’s inaction,” said a younger officer; “here we remain just as if nothing had been done. One would suppose that a Russian army stood in full force before us, and that we had not gained a tremendous battle.”

      “Depend on it, Auguste,” said the old officer, smiling, “his Majesty is not the man to let slip his golden opportunities. If we don’t advance, it is because it is safer to remain where we are.”

      “Safer than pursue a flying enemy?”

      “Even so. It is not Russia, nor Austria, we have in the field against us; but Europe, – the world.”

      “With all my heart,” retorted the other, boldly; “nor do I think the odds unfair. All I would ask is, the General Bonaparte of Cairo or Marengo, and not the purple-clad Emperor of the Tuileries.”

      “It is not while the plain is yet reeking with the blood of Austerlitz that such a reproach should be spoken,” said I, indignantly. “Never was Bonaparte greater than Napoleon.”

      “Monsieur has served in Egypt?” said the young man, contemptuously, while he measured me from head to foot.

      “Would that I had! Would that I could give whatever years I may have before me, for those whose every day shall live in history!”

      “You are right, young man,” said the old colonel; “they were glorious times, and a worthy prelude to the greatness that followed them.”

      “A bright promise of the future, – never to come,” rejoined the younger, with a flash of anger on his cheek.

      “Parbleu, sir, you speak boldly!” said a harsh, low voice from behind. We turned: it was Napoleon, dressed in a gray coat, all covered with fur, and looking like one of the couriers of the army. “I did not know my measures were so freely canvassed as I find them. Who are you, sir?”

      “Legrange, Sire, chef d’escadron of the Second Voltigeurs,” said the young man, trembling from head to foot while he uncovered his head, and stood, cap in hand, before him.

      “Since when, sir, have I called you into my counsels and asked your advice? or what is it in your position which entitles you to question one in mine? Duroc, come here. Your sword, sir!”

      The young man let fall his shako from his hand, and laid it on his sword-hilt.

      “Ah!” cried the Emperor, suddenly; “what became of your right arm?”

      “I left it at Aboukir, Sire.”

      Napoleon muttered something between his teeth; then added, aloud, —

      “Come, sir, you are not the first whose hand has saved his head. Return to your duty, and, mark me! be satisfied with doing yours, and leave me to mine. And you, sir,” said he, turning towards me, and using the same harsh tone of voice, “I should know your face.”

      “Lieutenant Burke, of the Eighth Hussars.”

      “Ah! I remember, – the Chouanist. So, sir, it seems that I stand somewhat higher in your esteem than when you kept company with Messieurs Georges and Pichegru, eh?”

      “No, Sire; your Majesty ever occupied the first place in my admiration and devotion.”

      “Sacristi! then you took a strange way to show it when first I had the pleasure of your acquaintance. You are on General St. Hilaire’s staff?”

      “General d’Auvergne’s, Sire.”

      “True. D’Auvergne, a word with you.”

      He turned and whispered something to the old general, who during the whole colloquy stood at his back, anxious but not daring to interpose a word.

      “Well, well,” said Napoleon, in a voice of much kinder accent, “I am satisfied. Your general, sir, reports favorably of your zeal and capacity. I do not desire to let your former conduct prove any bar to your advancement; and on his recommendation, of which I trust you may prove yourself worthy, I name you to a troop in your own regiment.”

      “And still to serve on my staff?” said the general, half questioning the Emperor.

      “As you wish it, D’Auvergne.”

      With that he moved forward ere I could do more than express my gratitude by a respectful bow.

      “I told you, Burke, the time would come for this,” said D’Auvergne, as he pressed my hand warmly, and followed the cortege of the Emperor.

      Hitherto I had lived an almost isolated life. My staff duties had so separated me from my brother officers that I only knew them by name; while the other aides-de-camp of the general were men much older than myself, and with none of them had I formed any intimacy whatever. It was not without a sense of this loneliness that I now thought over my promotion. The absence of those who sympathize with our moments of joy and sorrow reduces our enjoyment to a narrow limit indeed. The only one of all I knew who would really have felt happy in my advancement was poor Pioche. He was beyond every thought of pleasure or grief.

      Thus reflecting, I turned towards my quarters at Brunn. It was evening: the watchfires were lighted, and round them sat groups of soldiers at their supper, chatting away pleasantly, and recounting the events of the battle. Many had been slightly wounded, and by their bandaged foreheads and disabled arms claimed a marked pre-eminence above the rest. A straw bivouac, with its great blazing fire in front, would denote some officer’s quarters; and here were generally some eight or ten assembled, while the savory odor of some smoking dish, and the merry laughter, proclaimed that feasting was not excluded from the life of a campaign.

      As I passed one of these I heard the tones of a voice which, well known, had somehow not been heard by me for many a day before. Who could it be? I listened, but in vain. I asked myself whose was it. I dismounted, and leading my horse by the bridle, passed before the hut. The strong light of the blazing wood lit up the interior, and showed me a party of about a dozen officers, seated and lying on a heap of straw, occupied in discussing a supper, which, however wanting in all the elegancies of table equipment, even where I stood had a most appetizing odor. Various drinking vessels, some of them silver, passed from hand to hand rapidly; and the clinking of cups proclaimed that, although of different regiments, – as I saw they were, – a kindly feeling united them.

      “Well, François,” said the same voice, whose accents were so familiar to me without my being able to say why, – “well, Francois, you have not told us how it happened.”

      “Easily enough,” said another; “he broke my blade in his back, and gave point afterwards and ran me through the chest.” It was the maître d’armes of the Fourth, my old antagonist, who said this, and I drew near to hear the remainder. “You could not call the thing unfair,” continued he; “but, after all, no one ever heard of such a passe.”

      “I could have told you of it, though,” rejoined the other; “for I remember once, in the fencing school at the Polytechnique, I saw him catch his antagonist’s blade in his sleeve, and when he had it secure, snap it across, and then thrust home with his own. Parbleu! he lost a coat by it; and I believe, at the time, poor fellow, he could ill spare it.”

      This story, which was told of myself, was an incident which occurred in a school duel, and was only known to two or three others; and again was I puzzled to think which of my former companions the speaker could