The Adventures of Gerard

Chapter 6

How the Brigadier Rode to Minsk

--

I would have a stronger wine to-night, my friends, a wine of

Burgundy rather than of Bordeaux. It is that my heart, my old

soldier heart, is heavy within me. It is a strange thing, this

age which creeps upon one. One does not know, one does not

understand; the spirit is ever the same, and one does not

remember how the poor body crumbles. But there comes a moment

when it is brought home, when quick as the sparkle of a whirling

sabre it is clear to us, and we see the men we were and the men

we are. Yes, yes, it was so to-day, and I would have a wine of

Burgundy to-night. White Burgundy--Montrachet --Sir, I am your

debtor!

It was this morning in the Champ de Mars. Your pardon, friends,

while an old man tells his trouble. You saw the review. Was it

not splendid? I was in the enclosure for veteran officers who

have been decorated.

This ribbon on my breast was my passport. The cross itself I

keep at home in a leathern pouch. They did us honour, for we

were placed at the saluting point, with the Emperor and the

carriages of the Court upon our right.

It is years since I have been to a review, for I cannot approve

of many things which I have seen. I do not approve of the red

breeches of the infantry. It was in white breeches that the

infantry used to fight. Red is for the cavalry. A little more,

and they would ask our busbies and our spurs! Had I been seen at

a review they might well have said that I, Etienne Gerard, had

condoned it. So I have stayed at home. But this war of the

Crimea is different. The men go to battle.

It is not for me to be absent when brave men gather.

My faith, they march well, those little infantrymen!

They are not large, but they are very solid and they carry

themselves well. I took off my hat to them as they passed. Then

there came the guns. They were good guns, well horsed and well

manned. I took off my hat to them. Then came the Engineers, and

to them also I took off my hat. There are no braver men than the

Engineers. Then came the cavalry, Lancers, Cuirassiers,

Chasseurs, and Spahis. To all of them in turn I was able to take

off my hat, save only to the Spahis.

The Emperor had no Spahis. But when all of the others had

passed, what think you came at the close? A brigade of Hussars,

and at the charge!

Oh, my friends, the pride and the glory and the beauty, the flash

and the sparkle, the roar of the hoofs and the jingle of chains,

the tossing manes, the noble heads, the rolling cloud, and the

dancing waves of steel! My heart drummed to them as they passed.

And the last of all, was it not my own old regiment? My eyes

fell upon the grey and silver dolmans, with the leopard-skin

shabraques, and at that instant the years fell away from me and I

saw my own beautiful men and horses, even as they had swept

behind their young colonel, in the pride of our youth and our

strength, just forty years ago. Up flew my cane. "Chargez! En

avant! Vive l'Empereur!"

It was the past calling to the present. But oh, what a thin,

piping voice! Was this the voice that had once thundered from

wing to wing of a strong brigade? And the arm that could scarce

wave a cane, were these the muscles of fire and steel which had

no match in all Napoleon's mighty host? They smiled at me. They

cheered me. The Emperor laughed and bowed. But to me the

present was a dim dream, and what was real were my eight hundred

dead Hussars and the Etienne of long ago.

Enough--a brave man can face age and fate as he faced Cossacks

and Uhlans. But there are times when Montrachet is better than

the wine of Bordeaux.

It is to Russia that they go, and so I will tell you a story of

Russia. Ah, what an evil dream of the night it seems! Blood and

ice. Ice and blood. Fierce faces with snow upon the whiskers.

Blue hands held out for succour. And across the great white

plain the one long black line of moving figures, trudging,

trudging, a hundred miles, another hundred, and still always the

same white plain. Sometimes there were fir-woods to limit it,

sometimes it stretched away to the cold blue sky, but the black

line stumbled on and on. Those weary, ragged, starving men, the

spirit frozen out of them, looked neither to right nor left, but

with sunken faces and rounded backs trailed onward and ever

onward, making for France as wounded beasts make for their lair.

There was no speaking, and you could scarce hear the shuffle of

feet in the snow. Once only I heard them laugh. It was outside

Wilna, when an aide-de-camp rode up to the head of that dreadful

column and asked if that were the Grand Army. All who were

within hearing looked round, and when they saw those broken men,

those ruined regiments, those fur-capped skeletons who were once

the Guard, they laughed, and the laugh crackled down the column

like a feu de joie. I have heard many a groan and cry and scream

in my life, but nothing so terrible as the laugh of the Grand

Army.

But why was it that these helpless men were not destroyed by the

Russians? Why was it that they were not speared by the Cossacks

or herded into droves, and driven as prisoners into the heart of

Russia? On every side as you watched the black snake winding

over the snow you saw also dark, moving shadows which came and

went like cloud drifts on either flank and behind. They were the

Cossacks, who hung round us like wolves round the flock.

But the reason why they did not ride in upon us was that all the

ice of Russia could not cool the hot hearts of some of our

soldiers. To the end there were always those who were ready to

throw themselves between these savages and their prey. One man

above all rose greater as the danger thickened, and won a higher

name amid disaster than he had done when he led our van to

victory. To him I drink this glass--to Ney, the red-maned Lion,

glaring back over his shoulder at the enemy who feared to tread

too closely on his heels. I can see him now, his broad white

face convulsed with fury, his light blue eyes sparkling like

flints, his great voice roaring and crashing amid the roll of the

musketry. His glazed and featherless c****d hat was the ensign

upon which France rallied during those dreadful days.

It is well known that neither I nor the regiment of Hussars of

Conflans were at Moscow. We were left behind on the lines of

communication at Borodino. How the Emperor could have advanced

without us is incomprehensible to me, and, indeed, it was only

then that I understood that his judgment was weakening and that

he was no longer the man that he had been. However, a soldier

has to obey orders, and so I remained at this village, which was

poisoned by the bodies of thirty thousand men who had lost their

lives in the great battle. I spent the late autumn in getting my

horses into condition and reclothing my men, so that when the

army fell back on Borodino my Hussars were the best of the

cavalry, and were placed under Ney in the rear-guard.

What could he have done without us during those dreadful days?

"Ah, Gerard," said he one evening-- but it is not for me to

repeat the words. Suffice it that he spoke what the whole army

felt. The rear-guard covered the army and the Hussars of

Conflans covered the rear-guard. There was the whole truth in a

sentence.

Always the Cossacks were on us. Always we held them off. Never

a day passed that we had not to wipe our sabres. That was

soldiering indeed.

But there came a time between Wilna and Smolensk when the

situation became impossible. Cossacks and even cold we could

fight, but we could not fight hunger as well. Food must be got

at all costs. That night Ney sent for me to the waggon in which

he slept. His great head was sunk on his hands. Mind and body

he was wearied to death.

"Colonel Gerard," said he, "things are going very badly with us.

The men are starving. We must have food at all costs."

"The horses," I suggested.

"Save your handful of cavalry; there are none left."

"The band," said I.

He laughed, even in his despair.

"Why the band?" he asked.

"Fighting men are of value."

"Good," said he. "You would play the game down to the last card

and so would I. Good, Gerard, good!"

He clasped my hand in his. "But there is one chance for us yet,

Gerard." He unhooked a lantern from the roof of the waggon and

he laid it on a map which was stretched before him. "To the

south of us," said he, "there lies the town of Minsk. I have

word from a Russian deserter that much corn has been stored in

the town- hall. I wish you to take as many men as you think

best, set forth for Minsk, seize the corn, load any carts which

you may collect in the town, and bring them to me between here

and Smolensk. If you fail it is but a detachment cut off. If

you succeed it is new life to the army."

He had not expressed himself well, for it was evident that if we

failed it was not merely the loss of a detachment. It is quality

as well as quantity which counts.

And yet how honourable a mission and how glorious a risk! If

mortal men could bring it, then the corn should come from Minsk.

I said so, and spoke a few burning words about a brave man's duty

until the Marshal was so moved that he rose and, taking me

affectionately by the shoulders, pushed me out of the waggon.

It was clear to me that in order to succeed in my enterprise I

should take a small force and depend rather upon surprise than

upon numbers. A large body could not conceal itself, would have

great difficulty in getting food, and would cause all the

Russians around us to concentrate for its certain destruction.

On the other hand, if a small body of cavalry could get past the

Cossacks unseen it was probable that they would find no troops to

oppose them, for we knew that the main Russian army was several

days' march behind us. This corn was meant, no doubt, for their

consumption. A squadron of Hussars and thirty Polish Lancers

were all whom I chose for the venture. That very night we rode

out of the camp, and struck south in the direction of Minsk.

Fortunately there was but a half moon, and we were able to pass

without being attacked by the enemy. Twice we saw great fires

burning amid the snow, and around them a thick bristle of long

poles. These were the lances of Cossacks, which they had stood

upright while they slept. It would have been a great joy to us

to have charged in amongst them, for we had much to revenge, and

the eyes of my comrades looked longingly from me to those red

flickering patches in the darkness. My faith, I was sorely

tempted to do it, for it would have been a good lesson to teach

them that they must keep a few miles between themselves and a

French army. It is the essence of good generalship, however, to

keep one thing before one at a time, and so we rode silently on

through the snow, leaving these Cossack bivouacs to right and

left. Behind us the black sky was all mottled with a line of

flame which showed where our own poor wretches were trying to

keep themselves alive for another day of misery and starvation.

All night we rode slowly onward, keeping our horses' tails to the

Pole Star. There were many tracks in the snow, and we kept to

the line of these, that no one might remark that a body of

cavalry had passed that way.

These are the little precautions which mark the experienced

officer. Besides, by keeping to the tracks we were most likely

to find the villages, and only in the villages could we hope to

get food. The dawn of day found us in a thick fir-wood, the

trees so loaded with snow that the light could hardly reach us.

When we had found our way out of it it was full daylight, the rim

of the rising sun peeping over the edge of the great snow-plain

and turning it crimson from end to end. I halted my Hussars and

Lancers under the shadow of the wood, and I studied the country.

Close to us there was a small farm-house. Beyond, at the

distance of several miles, was a village. Far away on the

sky-line rose a considerable town all bristling with church

towers. This must be Minsk. In no direction could I see any

signs of troops. It was evident that we had passed through the

Cossacks and that there was nothing between us and our goal. A

joyous shout burst from my men when I told them our position, and

we advanced rapidly toward the village.

I have said, however, that there was a small farm- house

immediately in front of us. As we rode up to it I observed that

a fine grey horse with a military saddle was tethered by the

door. Instantly I galloped forward, but before I could reach it

a man dashed out of the door, flung himself on to the horse, and

rode furiously away, the crisp, dry snow flying up in a cloud

behind him. The sunlight gleamed upon his gold epaulettes, and I

knew that he was a Russian officer. He would raise the whole

country-side if we did not catch him. I put spurs to Violette

and flew after him. My troopers followed; but there was no horse

among them to compare with Violette, and I knew well that if I

could not catch the Russian I need expect no help from them.

But it is a swift horse indeed and a skilful rider who can hope

to escape from Violette with Etienne Gerard in the saddle. He

rode well, this young Russian, and his mount was a good one, but

gradually we wore him down.

His face glanced continually over his shoulder--dark, handsome

face, with eyes like an eagle--and I saw as I closed with him

that he was measuring the distance between us. Suddenly he half

turned; there were a flash and a crack as his pistol bullet

hummed past my ear.

Before he could draw his sword I was upon him; but he still

spurred his horse, and the two galloped together over the plain,

I with my leg against the Russian's and my left hand upon his

right shoulder. I saw his hand fly up to his mouth. Instantly I

dragged him across my pommel and seized him by the throat, so

that he could not swallow. His horse shot from under him, but I

held him fast and Violette came to a stand. Sergeant Oudin of

the Hussars was the first to join us. He was an old soldier, and

he saw at a glance what I was after.

"Hold tight, Colonel," said he, "I'll do the rest."

He slipped out his knife, thrust the blade between the clenched

teeth of the Russian, and turned it so as to force his mouth

open. There, on his tongue, was the little wad of wet paper

which he had been so anxious to swallow. Oudin picked it out and

I let go of the man's throat. From the way in which, half

strangled as he was, he glanced at the paper I was sure that it

was a message of extreme importance. His hands twitched as if he

longed to snatch it from me. He shrugged his shoulders, however,

and smiled good-humouredly when I apologised for my roughness.

"And now to business," said I, when he had done coughing and

hawking. "What is your name?"

"Alexis Barakoff."

"Your rank and regiment?"

"Captain of the Dragoons of Grodno."

"What is this note which you were carrying?"

"It is a line which I had written to my sweetheart."

"Whose name," said I, examining the address, "is the Hetman

Platoff. Come, come, sir, this is an important military

document, which you are carrying from one general to another.

Tell me this instant what it is."

"Read it and then you will know." He spoke perfect French, as do

most of the educated Russians. But he knew well that there is

not one French officer in a thousand who knows a word of Russian.

The inside of the note contained one single line, which ran like

this:--

"Pustj Franzuzy pridutt v Minsk. Min gotovy."

I stared at it, and I had to shake my head. Then I showed it to

my Hussars, but they could make nothing of it. The Poles were

all rough fellows who could not read or write, save only the

sergeant, who came from Memel, in East Prussia, and knew no

Russian. It was maddening, for I felt that I had possession of

some important secret upon which the safety of the army might

depend, and yet I could make no sense of it. Again I entreated

our prisoner to translate it, and offered him his freedom if he

would do so. He only smiled at my request.

I could not but admire him, for it was the very smile which I

should have myself smiled had I been in his position.

"At least," said I, "tell us the name of this village."

"It is Dobrova."

"And that is Minsk over yonder, I suppose."

"Yes, that is Minsk."

"Then we shall go to the village and we shall very soon find some

one who will translate this despatch."

So we rode onward together, a trooper with his carbine unslung on

either side of our prisoner. The village was but a little place,

and I set a guard at the ends of the single street, so that no

one could escape from it. It was necessary to call a halt and to

find some food for the men and horses, since they had travelled

all night and had a long journey still before them.

There was one large stone house in the centre of the village, and

to this I rode. It was the house of the priest --a snuffy and

ill-favoured old man who had not a civil answer to any of our

questions. An uglier fellow I never met, but, my faith, it was

very different with his only daughter, who kept house for him.

She was a brunette, a rare thing in Russia, with creamy skin,

raven hair, and a pair of the most glorious dark eyes that ever

kindled at the sight of a Hussar. From the first glance I saw

that she was mine. It was no time for love-making when a

soldier's duty had to be done, but still, as I took the simple

meal which they laid before me, I chatted lightly with the lady,

and we were the best of friends before an hour had passed.

Sophie was her first name, her second I never knew. I taught her

to call me Etienne, and I tried to cheer her up, for her sweet

face was sad and there were tears in her beautiful dark eyes. I

pressed her to tell me what it was which was grieving her.

"How can I be otherwise," said she, speaking French with a most

adorable lisp, "when one of my poor countrymen is a prisoner in

your hands? I saw him between two of your Hussars as you rode

into the village."

"It is the fortune of war," said I. "His turn to-day; mine,

perhaps, to-morrow."

"But consider, Monsieur--" said she.

"Etienne," said I.

"Oh, Monsieur----"

"Etienne," said I.

"Well, then," she cried, beautifully flushed and desperate,

"consider, Etienne, that this young officer will be taken back to

your army and will be starved or frozen, for if, as I hear, your

own soldiers have a hard march, what will be the lot of a

prisoner?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"You have a kind face, Etienne," said she; "you would not condemn

this poor man to certain death. I entreat you to let him go."

Her delicate hand rested upon my sleeve, her dark eyes looked

imploringly into mine.

A sudden thought passed through my mind. I would grant her

request, but I would demand a favour in return.

At my order the prisoner was brought up into the room.

"Captain Barakoff," said I, "this young lady has begged me to

release you, and I am inclined to do so. I would ask you to give

your parole that you will remain in this dwelling for twenty-four

hours, and take no steps to inform anyone of our movements."

"I will do so," said he.

"Then I trust in your honour. One man more or less can make no

difference in a struggle between great armies, and to take you

back as a prisoner would be to condemn you to death. Depart,

sir, and show your gratitude not to me, but to the first French

officer who falls into your hands."

When he was gone I drew my paper from my pocket.

"Now, Sophie," said I, "I have done what you asked me, and all

that I ask in return is that you will give me a lesson in

Russian."

"With all my heart," said she.

"Let us begin on this," said I, spreading out the paper before

her. "Let us take it word for word and see what it means."

She looked at the writing with some surprise. "It means," said

she, "if the French come to Minsk all is lost." Suddenly a look

of consternation passed over her beautiful face. "Great

Heavens!" she cried, "what is it that I have done? I have

betrayed my country! Oh, Etienne, your eyes are the last for

whom this message is meant. How could you be so cunning as to

make a poor, simple-minded, and unsuspecting girl betray the

cause of her country?"

I consoled my poor Sophie as best I might, and I assured her that

it was no reproach to her that she should be outwitted by so old

a campaigner and so shrewd a man as myself. But it was no time

now for talk. This message made it clear that the corn was

indeed at Minsk, and that there were no troops there to defend

it. I gave a hurried order from the window, the trumpeter blew

the assembly, and in ten minutes we had left the village behind

us and were riding hard for the city, the gilded domes and

minarets of which glimmered above the snow of the horizon.

Higher they rose and higher, until at last, as the sun sank

toward the west, we were in the broad main street, and galloped

up it amid the shouts of the moujiks and the cries of frightened

women until we found ourselves in front of the great town-hall.

My cavalry I drew up in the square, and I, with my two sergeants,

Oudin and Papilette, rushed into the building.

Heavens! shall I ever forget the sight which greeted us? Right

in front of us was drawn up a triple line of Russian Grenadiers.

Their muskets rose as we entered, and a crashing volley burst

into our very faces. Oudin and Papilette dropped upon the floor,

riddled with bullets.

For myself, my busby was shot away and I had two holes through my

dolman. The Grenadiers ran at me with their bayonets.

"Treason!" I cried. "We are betrayed! Stand to your horses!" I

rushed out of the hall, but the whole square was swarming with

troops.

From every side street Dragoons and Cossacks were riding down

upon us, and such a rolling fire had burst from the surrounding

houses that half my men and horses were on the ground. "Follow

me!" I yelled, and sprang upon Violette, but a giant of a Russian

Dragoon officer threw his arms round me and we rolled on the

ground together.

He shortened his sword to kill me, but, changing his mind, he

seized me by the throat and banged my head against the stones

until I was unconscious. So it was that I became the prisoner of

the Russians.

When I came to myself my only regret was that my captor had not

beaten out my brains. There in the grand square of Minsk lay

half my troopers dead or wounded, with exultant crowds of

Russians gathered round them.

The rest in a melancholy group were herded into the porch of the

town-hall, a sotnia of Cossacks keeping guard over them. Alas!

what could I say, what could I do? It was evident that I had led

my men into a carefully- baited trap. They had heard of our

mission and they had prepared for us. And yet there was that

despatch which had caused me to neglect all precautions and to

ride straight into the town. How was I to account for that? The

tears ran down my cheeks as I surveyed the ruin of my squadron,

and as I thought of the plight of my comrades of the Grand Army

who awaited the food which I was to have brought them. Ney had

trusted me and I had failed him. How often he would strain his

eyes over the snow-fields for that convoy of grain which should

never gladden his sight! My own fate was hard enough. An exile

in Siberia was the best which the future could bring me. But you

will believe me, my friends, that it was not for his own sake,

but for that of his starving comrades, that Etienne Gerard's

cheeks were lined by his tears, frozen even as they were shed.

"What's this?" said a gruff voice at my elbow; and I turned to

face the huge, black-bearded Dragoon who had dragged me from my

saddle. "Look at the Frenchman crying! I thought that the

Corsican was followed by brave men and not by children."

"If you and I were face to face and alone, I should let you see

which is the better man," said I.

For answer the brute struck me across the face with his open

hand. I seized him by the throat, but a dozen of his soldiers

tore me away from him, and he struck me again while they held my

hands.

"You base hound," I cried, "is this the way to treat an officer

and a gentleman?"

"We never asked you to come to Russia," said he. "If you do you

must take such treatment as you can get. I would shoot you

off-hand if I had my way."

"You will answer for this some day," I cried, as I wiped the

blood from my moustache.

"If the Hetman Platoff is of my way of thinking you will not be

alive this time to-morrow," he answered, with a ferocious scowl.

He added some words in Russian to his troops, and instantly they

all sprang to their saddles.

Poor Violette, looking as miserable as her master, was led round

and I was told to mount her. My left arm was tied with a thong

which was fastened to the stirrup- iron of a sergeant of

Dragoons. So in most sorry plight I and the remnant of my men

set forth from Minsk.

Never have I met such a brute as this man Sergine, who commanded

the escort. The Russian army contains the best and the worst in

the world, but a worse than Major Sergine of the Dragoons of

Kieff I have never seen in any force outside of the guerillas of

the Peninsula.

He was a man of great stature, with a fierce, hard face and a

bristling black beard, which fell over his cuirass.

I have been told since that he was noted for his strength and his

bravery, and I could answer for it that he had the grip of a

bear, for I had felt it when he tore me from my saddle. He was a

wit, too, in his way, and made continual remarks in Russian at

our expense which set all his Dragoons and Cossacks laughing.

Twice he beat my comrades with his riding-whip, and once he

approached me with the lash swung over his shoulder, but there

was something in my eyes which prevented it from falling.

So in misery and humiliation, cold and starving, we rode in a

disconsolate column across the vast snow-plain. The sun had

sunk, but still in the long northern twilight we pursued our

weary journey. Numbed and frozen, with my head aching from the

blows it had received, I was borne onward by Violette, hardly

conscious of where I was or whither I was going. The little mare

walked with a sunken head, only raising it to snort her contempt

for the mangy Cossack ponies who were round her.

But suddenly the escort stopped, and I found that we had halted

in the single street of a small Russian village.

There was a church on one side, and on the other was a large

stone house, the outline of which seemed to me to be familiar. I

looked around me in the twilight, and then I saw that we had been

led back to Dobrova, and that this house at the door of which we

were waiting was the same house of the priest at which we had

stopped in the morning. Here it was that my charming Sophie in

her innocence had translated the unlucky message which had in

some strange way led us to our ruin. To think that only a few

hours before we had left this very spot with such high hopes and

all fair prospects for our mission, and now the remnants of us

waited as beaten and humiliated men for whatever lot a brutal

enemy might ordain! But such is the fate of the soldier, my

friends --kisses to-day, blows to-morrow. Tokay in a palace,

ditch-water in a hovel, furs or rags, a full purse or an empty

pocket, ever swaying from the best to the worst, with only his

courage and his honour unchanging.

The Russian horsemen dismounted, and my poor fellows were ordered

to do the same. It was already late, and it was clearly their

intention to spend the night in this village. There were great

cheering and joy amongst the peasants when they understood that

we had all been taken, and they flocked out of their houses with

flaming torches, the women carrying out tea and brandy for the

Cossacks. Amongst others the old priest came forth-- the same

whom we had seen in the morning. He was all smiles now, and he

bore with him some hot punch on a salver, the reek of which I can

remember still. Behind her father was Sophie. With horror I saw

her clasp Major Sergine's hand as she congratulated him upon the

victory he had won and the prisoners he had made. The old

priest, her father, looked at me with an insolent face and made

insulting remarks at my expense, pointing at me with his lean and

grimy hand. His fair daughter Sophie looked at me also, but she

said nothing, and I could read her tender pity in her dark eyes.

At last she turned to Major Sergine and said something to him in

Russian, on which he frowned and shook his head impatiently.

She appeared to plead with him, standing there in the flood of

light which shone from the open door of her father's house. My

eyes were fixed upon the two faces, that of the beautiful girl

and of the dark, fierce man, for my instinct told me that it was

my own fate which was under debate. For a long time the soldier

shook his head, and then, at last softening before her pleadings,

he appeared to give way. He turned to where I stood with my

guardian sergeant beside me.

"These good people offer you the shelter of their roof for the

night," said he to me, looking me up and down with vindictive

eyes. "I find it hard to refuse them, but I tell you straight

that for my part I had rather see you on the snow. It would cool

your hot blood, you rascal of a Frenchman!"

I looked at him with the contempt that I felt.

"You were born a savage and you will die one," said I.

My words stung him, for he broke into an oath, raising his whip

as if he would strike me.

"Silence, you crop-eared dog!" he cried. "Had I my way some of

the insolence would be frozen out of you before morning."

Mastering his passion, he turned upon Sophie with what he meant

to be a gallant manner. "If you have a cellar with a good lock,"

said he, "the fellow may lie in it for the night, since you have

done him the honour to take an interest in his comfort. I must

have his parole that he will not attempt to play us any tricks,

as I am answerable for him until I hand him over to the Hetman

Platoff to-morrow."

His supercilious manner was more than I could endure.

He had evidently spoken French to the lady in order that I might

understand the humiliating way in which he referred to me.

"I will take no favour from you," said I. "You may do what you

like, but I will never give you my parole."

The Russian shrugged his great shoulders, and turned away as if

the matter were ended.

"Very well, my fine fellow, so much the worse for your fingers

and toes. We shall see how you are in the morning after a night

in the snow."

"One moment, Major Sergine," cried Sophie. "You must not be so

hard upon this prisoner. There are some special reasons why he

has a claim upon our kindness and mercy."

The Russian looked with suspicion upon his face from her to me.

"What are the special reasons? You certainly seem to take a

remarkable interest in this Frenchman," said he.

"The chief reason is that he has this very morning of his own

accord released Captain Alexis Barakoff, of the Dragoons of

Grodno."

"It is true," said Barakoff, who had come out of the house. "He

captured me this morning, and he released me upon parole rather

than take me back to the French army, where I should have been

starved."

"Since Colonel Gerard has acted so generously you will surely,

now that fortune has changed, allow us to offer him the poor

shelter of our cellar upon this bitter night," said Sophie. "It

is a small return for his generosity."

But the Dragoon was still in the sulks.

"Let him give me his parole first that he will not attempt to

escape," said he. "Do you hear, sir? Do you give me your

parole?"

"I give you nothing," said I.

"Colonel Gerard," cried Sophie, turning to me with a coaxing

smile, "you will give me your parole, will you not?"

"To you, mademoiselle, I can refuse nothing. I will give you my

parole, with pleasure."

"There, Major Sergine," cried Sophie, in triumph,

"that is surely sufficient. You have heard him say that he gives

me his parole. I will be answerable for his safety ."

In an ungracious fashion my Russian bear grunted his consent, and

so I was led into the house, followed by the scowling father and

by the big, black-bearded Dragoon. In the basement there was a

large and roomy chamber, where the winter logs were stored.

Thither it was that I was led, and I was given to understand that

this was to be my lodging for the night. One side of this bleak

apartment was heaped up to the ceiling with fagots of firewood.

The rest of the room was stone- flagged and bare-walled, with a

single, deep-set window upon one side, which was safely guarded

with iron bars. For light I had a large stable lantern, which

swung from a beam of the low ceiling. Major Sergine smiled as he

took this down, and swung it round so as to throw its light into

every corner of that dreary chamber.

"How do you like our Russian hotels, monsieur?" he asked, with

his hateful sneer. "They are not very grand, but they are the

best that we can give you. Perhaps the next time that you

Frenchmen take a fancy to travel you will choose some other

country where they will make you more comfortable." He stood

laughing at me, his white teeth gleaming through his beard. Then

he left me, and I heard the great key creak in the lock.

For an hour of utter misery, chilled in body and soul, I sat upon

a pile of fagots, my face sunk upon my hands and my mind full of

the saddest thoughts. It was cold enough within those four

walls, but I thought of the sufferings of my poor troopers

outside, and I sorrowed with their sorrow. Then. I paced up and

down, and I clapped my hands together and kicked my feet against

the walls to keep them from being frozen. The lamp gave out some

warmth, but still it was bitterly cold, and I had had no food

since morning. It seemed to me that everyone had forgotten me,

but at last I heard the key turn in the lock, and who should

enter but my prisoner of the morning, Captain Alexis Barakoff. A

bottle of wine projected from under his arm, and he carried a

great plate of hot stew in front of him.

"Hush!" said he; "not a word! Keep up your heart!

I cannot stop to explain, for Sergine is still with us.

Keep awake and ready!" With these hurried words he laid down the

welcome food and ran out of the room.

"Keep awake and ready!" The words rang in my ears. I ate my

food and I drank my wine, but it was neither food nor wine which

had warmed the heart within me. What could those words of

Barakoff mean?

Why was I to remain awake? For what was I to be ready? Was it

possible that there was a chance yet of escape? I have never

respected the man who neglects his prayers at all other times and

yet prays when he is in peril. It is like a bad soldier who pays

no respect to the colonel save when he would demand a favour of

him. And yet when I thought of the salt-mines of Siberia on the

one side and of my mother in France upon the other, I could not

help a prayer rising, not from my lips, but from my heart, that

the words of Barakoff might mean all that I hoped. But hour

after hour struck upon the village clock, and still I heard

nothing save the call of the Russian sentries in the street

outside.

Then at last my heart leaped within me, for I heard a light step

in the passage. An instant later the key turned, the door

opened, and Sophie was in the room.

"Monsieur--" she cried.

"Etienne," said I.

"Nothing will change you," said she. "But is it possible that

you do not hate me? Have you forgiven me the trick which I

played you?"

"What trick?" I asked.

"Good heavens! Is it possible that even now you have not

understood it? You have asked me to translate the despatch. I

have told you that it meant, 'If the French come to Minsk all is

lost.' "

"What did it mean, then?"

"It means, 'Let the French come to Minsk. We are awaiting

them."'

I sprang back from her.

"You betrayed me!" I cried. "You lured me into this trap. It is

to you that I owe the death and capture of my men. Fool that I

was to trust a woman!"

"Do not be unjust, Colonel Gerard. I am a Russian woman, and my

first duty is to my country. Would you not wish a French girl to

have acted as I have done?

Had I translated the message correctly you would not have gone to

Minsk and your squadron would have escaped.

Tell me that you forgive me!"

She looked bewitching as she stood pleading her cause in front of

me. And yet, as I thought of my dead men, I could not take the

hand which she held out to me.

"Very good," said she, as she dropped it by her side.

"You feel for your own people and I feel for mine, and so we are

equal. But you have said one wise and kindly thing within these

walls, Colonel Gerard. You have said, 'One man more or less can

make no difference in a struggle between two great armies.' Your

lesson of nobility is not wasted. Behind those fagots is an

unguarded door. Here is the key to it. Go forth, Colonel

Gerard, and I trust that we may never look upon each other's

faces again."

I stood for an instant with the key in my hand and my head in a

whirl. Then I handed it back to her.

"I cannot do it," I said.

"Why not?"

"I have given my parole."

"To whom?" she asked.

"Why, to you."

"And I release you from it."

My heart bounded with joy. Of course, it was true what she said.

I had refused to give my parole to Sergine. I owed him no duty.

If she relieved me from my promise my honour was clear. I took

the key from her hand.

"You will find Captain Barakoff at the end of the village

street," said she. "We of the North never forget either an

injury or a kindness. He has your mare and your sword waiting

for you. Do not delay an instant, for in two hours it will be

dawn."

So I passed out into the star-lit Russian night, and had that

last glimpse of Sophie as she peered after me through the open

door. She looked wistfully at me as if she expected something

more than the cold thanks which I gave her, but even the humblest

man has his pride, and I will not deny that mine was hurt by the

deception which she had played upon me. I could not have brought

myself to kiss her hand, far less her lips. The door led into a

narrow alley, and at the end of it stood a muffled figure, who

held Violette by the bridle.

"You told me to be kind to the next French officer whom I found

in distress," said he. "Good luck! Bon voyage!" he whispered,

as I bounded into the saddle.

"Remember, 'Poltava' is the watchword."

It was well that he had given it to me, for twice I had to pass

Cossack pickets before I was clear of the lines.

I had just ridden past the last vedettes and hoped that I was a

free man again, when there was a soft thudding in the snow behind

me, and a heavy man upon a great black horse came swiftly after

me. My first impulse was to put spurs to Violette. My second,

as I saw a long black beard against a steel cuirass, was to halt

and await him.

"I thought that it was you, you dog of a Frenchman," he cried,

shaking his drawn sword at me. "So you have broken your parole,

you rascal!"

"I gave no parole."

"You lie, you hound!"

I looked around and no one was coming. The vedettes were

motionless and distant. We were all alone, with the moon above

and the snow beneath. Fortune has ever been my friend.

"I gave you no parole."

"You gave it to the lady."

"Then I will answer for it to the lady."

"That would suit you better, no doubt. But, unfortunately, you

will have to answer for it to me."

"I am ready."

"Your sword, too! There is treason in this! Ah, I see it all!

The woman has helped you. She shall see Siberia for this night's

work."

The words were his death-warrant. For Sophie's sake I could not

let him go back alive. Our blades crossed, and an instant later

mine was through his black beard and deep in his throat. I was

on the ground almost as soon as he, but the one thrust was

enough. He died, snapping his teeth at my ankles like a savage

wolf.

Two days later I had rejoined the army at Smolensk, and was a

part once more of that dreary procession which tramped onward

through the snow, leaving a long weal of blood to show the path

which it had taken.

Enough, my friends; I would not re-awaken the memory of those

days of misery and death. They still come to haunt me in my

dreams. When we halted at last in Warsaw we had left behind us

our guns, our transport, and three-fourths of our comrades. But

we did not leave behind us the honour of Etienne Gerard. They

have said that I broke my parole. Let them beware how they say

it to my face, for the story is as I tell it, and old as I am my

forefinger is not too weak to press a trigger when my honour is

in question.