wo viel licht ist, ist starker schatten.
in the mean time the last of the great army had reached the niemen, that narrow winding river in its ditch-like bed sunk below the level of the tableland, to which six months earlier the greatest captain this world has ever seen rode alone, and, coming back to his officers, said—
“here we cross.”
four hundred thousand men had crossed—a bare eighty thousand lived to pass the bridge again. twelve hundred cannons had been left behind, nearly a thousand in the hands of the enemy, and the remainder buried or thrown into those dull rivers whose slow waters flow over them to this day. one hundred and twenty-five thousand officers and men had been killed in battle, another hundred thousand had perished by cold and disaster at the beresina or other rivers where panic seized the fugitives.
forty-eight generals had been captured by the russians, three thousand officers, one hundred and ninety thousand men, swallowed by the silent white empire of the north and no more seen.
as the retreat neared vilna the cold had increased, killing men as the first cold of an english winter kills flies. and when the french quitted vilna, the russians were glad enough to seek its shelter, kutusoff creeping in with forty thousand men, all that remained to him of two hundred thousand. he could not carry on the pursuit, but sent forward a handful of cossacks to harry the hare-brained few who called themselves the rearguard. he was an old man, nearly worn out, with only three months more to live—but he had done his work.
ney—the bravest of the brave—left alone in russia at the last with seven hundred foreign recruits, men picked from here and there, called in from the highways and hedges to share the glory of the only marshal who came back from moscow with a name untarnished—ney and girard, musket in hand, were the last to cross the bridge, shouting defiance at their cossack foes, who, when they had hounded the last of the french across the frontier, flung themselves down on the bloodstained snow to rest.
all along the banks of the vistula, from konigsberg and dantzig 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 konigsberg 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 step-son 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 konigsberg or dantzig 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 dantzig 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 desiree 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 fete. what is to-day?”
“it is new year's day,” replied desiree.
“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 ice-bound rim of his fur cap, “bon dieu—what am i to wish you, i wonder?”
desiree 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 desiree.
“then between friends,” said barlasch, gruffly; “it is not necessary to smile—like that—when it is tears that are there.”
desiree 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 desiree, 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 desiree, 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 desiree could see that he had heard news.
the inn was outside the town, on the road that follows the vistula northwards to dirschau and dantzig. 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 a course of action in a difficult position.
“he comes from my own country, that man. you heard us? we spoke together in our patois. i shall not see him again. he has a catarrh. when he coughs there is blood. alas!”
desiree glanced at the rugged face half turned away from her. she was not naturally heartless; but she quite forgot to sympathize with the elderly soldier who had caught a cold on the retreat from moscow; for his friend's grief lacked conviction. barlasch had heard news which he had decided to keep to himself.
“has he come from vilna?” asked desiree.
“from vilna—oh yes. they are all from vilna.”
“and he had no news”—persisted she, “of—captain darragon?”
“news—oh no! he is a common soldier, and knows nothing of the officers on the staff. we are the same—he and i—poor animals in the ranks. a little gentleman rides up, all sabretasche and gold lace. it is an officer of the staff. 'go down into the valley and get shot,' he says. and—bon jour! we go. no—no. he has no news, my poor comrade.”
they were at the inn now, and found the huge yard still packed with sleighs and disabled carriages, and the stables ostentatiously empty.
“go in,” said barlasch; “and tell them who your father is—say antoine sebastian and nothing else. i would do it myself, but when it is so cold as that, the lips are stiff, and i cannot speak german properly. they would find out that i am french, and it is no good being french now. my comrade told me that in konigsberg, murat himself was ill-received by the burgomaster and such city stuff as that.”
it was as barlasch foretold. for at the name of antoine sebastian the innkeeper found horses—in another stable.
it would take a few minutes, he said, to fetch them, and in the meantime there were coffee and some roast meat—his own dinner. indeed, he could not do enough to testify his respect for desiree, and his commiseration for her, being forced to travel in such weather through a country infested by starving brigands.
barlasch consented to come just within the inner door, but refused to sit at the table with desiree. he took a piece of bread, and ate it standing.
“see you,” he said to her when they were left alone, “the good god has made very few mistakes, but there is one thing i would have altered. if he intended us for such a rough life, he should have made the human frame capable of going longer without food. to a poor soldier marching from moscow to have to stop every three hours and gnaw a piece of horse that has died—and raw—it is not amusing.”
he watched desiree with a grudging eye. for she was young, and had eaten nothing for six freezing hours.
“and for us,” he added; “what a waste of time!”
desiree rose at once with a laugh.
“you want to go,” she said. “come, i am ready.”
“yes,” he admitted, “i want to go. i am afraid—name of a dog! i am afraid, i tell you. for i have heard the cossacks cry, 'hurrah! hurrah!' and they are coming.”
“ah!” said desiree, “that is what your friend told you.”
“that, and other things.”
he was pulling on his gloves as he spoke, and turned quickly on his heel when the innkeeper entered the room, as if he had expected one of those dread cossacks of toula who were half savage. but the innkeeper carried nothing more lethal in his hand than a yellow mug of beer, which he offered to barlasch. and the old soldier only shook his head.
“there is poison in it,” he muttered. “he knows i am a frenchman.”
“come,” said desiree, with her gay laugh, “i will show you that there is no poison in it.”
she took the mug and drank, and handed the measure to barlasch. it was a poor thin beer, and barlasch was not one to hide his opinion from the host, to whom he made a reproving grimace when he returned the empty mug. but the effect upon him was nevertheless good, for he took the reins again with a renewed energy, and called to the horses gaily enough.
“allons,” he said; “we shall reach dantzig safely by nightfall, and there we shall find your husband awaiting us, and laughing at us for our foolish journey.”
but being an old man, the beer could not warm his heart for long, and he soon lapsed again into melancholy and silence. nevertheless, they reached dantzig by nightfall, and although it was a bitter twilight—colder than the night itself—the streets were full. men stood in groups and talked. in the brief time required to journey to thorn something had happened. something happened every day in dantzig; for when history wakes from her slumber and moves, it is with a heavy and restless tread.
“what is it?” asked barlasch of the sentry at the town gate, while they waited for their passports to be returned to them.
“it is a proclamation from the emperor of russia—no one knows how it has got here.”
“and what does he proclaim—that citizen?”
“he bids the dantzigers rise and turn us out,” answered the soldier, with a grim laugh.
“is that all?”
“no, comrade, that is not all,” was the answer in a graver voice.
“he proclaims that every pole who submits now will be forgiven and set at liberty; the past, he says, will be committed to an eternal oblivion and a profound silence—those are his words.”
“ah!”
“yes, and half the defenders of dantzig are poles—there are your passports—pass on.”
they drove through the dark streets where men like shadows hurried silently about their business.
the frauengasse seemed to be deserted when they reached it. it was mathilde who opened the door. she must have been at the darkened window, behind the curtain. lisa had gone home to her native village in sammland in obedience to the governor's orders. sebastian had not been home all day. charles had not returned, and there was no news of him.
barlasch, wiping the snow from his face, watched desiree, and made no comment.
