All along the banks of the Vistula, from Königsberg and Danzig up to Warsaw—that slow river which at the last call shall assuredly give up more dead than any other—the fugitives straggled homewards. For the Russians paused at their own frontier, and Prussia was still nominally the friend of France. She had still to wear the mask for three long months when she should at last openly side with Russia, only to be beaten again by Napoleon.
Murat was at Königsberg with the Imperial staff, left in supreme command by the Emperor, and already thinking of his own sunny kingdom of the Mediterranean, and the ease and the glory of it. In a few weeks he, too, must tarnish his name.
“I make over the command to you,” he said to Prince Eugene; and Napoleon’s stepson made an answer which shows, as Eugene showed again and again, that contact with a great man makes for greatness.
“You cannot make it over to me,” he replied. “Only the Emperor can do that. You can run away in the night, and the supreme command will devolve on me the next morning.”
And what Murat did is no doubt known to the learned reader.
Macdonald, abandoned by Yorck with the Prussian contingent, in great peril, alone in the north, was retreating with the remains of the Tenth Army Corps, wondering whether Königsberg or Danzig would still be French when he reached them. On his heels was Wittgenstein, in touch with St. Petersburg and the Emperor Alexander, communicating with Kutusoff at Vilna. And Macdonald, like the Scotchman and the Frenchman that he was, turned at a critical moment and rent Wittgenstein. Here was another bulldog in that panic-stricken pack, who turned and snarled and fought while his companions slunk homewards with their tails between their legs. There were three of such breed—Ney and Macdonald, and Prince Eugene de Beauharnais.
Napoleon was in Paris, getting together in wild haste the new army with which he was yet to frighten Europe into fits. And Rapp, doggedly fortifying his frozen city, knew that he was to hold Danzig at any cost—a remote, far-thrown outpost on the Northern sea, cut off from all help, hundreds of miles from the French frontier, nearly a thousand miles from Paris.
At Marienwerder, Barlasch and Désirée found themselves in the midst of that bustle and confusion which attends the arrival or departure of an army corps. The majority of the men were young and of a dark skin. They seemed gay, and called out salutations to which Barlasch replied curtly enough.
“They are Italians,” said he to his companion; “I know their talk and their manners. To you and me, who come from the North, they are like children. See that one who is dancing. It is some fête. What is today?”
“It is New Year’s Day,” replied Désirée.
“New Year’s Day,” echoed Barlasch. “Good. And we have been on the road since six o’clock; and I, who have forgotten to wish you—” He paused and called cheerily to the horses, which had covered more than forty miles since leaving their stable at Thorn. “Bon Dieu!” he said in a lower tone, glancing at her beneath the icebound rim of his fur cap, “Bon Dieu—what am I to wish you, I wonder?”
Désirée did not answer, but smiled a little and looked straight in front of her.
Barlasch made a movement of the shoulders and eyebrows indicative of a hidden anger.
“We are friends,” he asked suddenly, “you and I?”
“Yes.”
“We have been friends since—that day—when you were married?”
“Yes,” answered Désirée.
“Then between friends,” said Barlasch, gruffly; “it is not necessary to smile—like that—when it is tears that are there.”
Désirée laughed.
“Would you have me weep?” she asked.
“It would hurt one less,” said Barlasch, attending to his horses. They were in the town now, and the narrow streets were crowded. Many sick and wounded were dragging themselves wearily along. A few carts, drawn by starving horses, went slowly down the hill. But there was some semblance of order, and thus men had the air and carriage of soldiers under discipline. Barlasch was quick to see it.
“It is the Fourth Corps. The Viceroy’s army. They have done well. He is a soldier, who commands them. Ah! There is one I know.”
He threw the reins to Désirée, and in a moment he was out on the snow. A man, as old, it would seem, as himself, in uniform and carrying a musket, was marching past with a few men who seemed to be under his orders, though his uniform was long past recognition. He did not perceive, for some minutes, that Barlasch was coming towards him, and then the process of recognition was slow. Finally, he laid aside his musket, and the two old men gravely kissed each other.
Quite forgetful of Désirée, they stood talking together for twenty minutes. Then they gravely embraced once more, and Barlasch returned to the sleigh. He took the reins, and urged the horses up the hill without commenting on his encounter, but Désirée could see that he had heard news.
The inn was outside the town, on the road that follows the Vistula northwards to Dirschau and Danzig. The horses were tired, and stumbled on the powdery snow which was heavy, like sand, and of a sandy colour. Here and there, by the side of the road, were great stains of blood and the remains of a horse that had been killed, and eaten raw. The faces of many of the men were smeared with blood, which had dried on their cheeks and caked there. Nearly all were smoke-grimed and had sore eyes.
At last Barlasch spoke, with the decisive air of one who has finally drawn up
