Front matter (continued 9)

The action of the drama had been shifted from Austria to France, and the scene on which the curtain was now to rise was the Palace of Fontainebleau.

Here, on the evening of the aforesaid day in November, Josephine, still Empress, but not long to be, was pacing, restlessly and with agitated mien, the floor of her private apartment. She was still beautiful, but the sadness of her face, and the look almost of terror in it were painful to behold. Just so might have looked Mary, Queen of Scots, on her way to execution. She was royally attired, and the aid of every feminine art had been invoked to enhance the many charms she had, and to create the few she lacked. A diamond tiara sparkled on her head, and over her shoulders, to protect them from the draughts, was thrown a violet velvet mantle studded with the imperial bees, the Emperor affected.

The infinite pains to make herself attractive, had been taken for him, for he was momentarily expected. He had arrived some hours before from Paris, but they had not yet met.

Prepared by St. Just, as she had been, for the last three months for the coming interview—he had informed her of the failure of his errand to her husband—now that the moment for it was close at hand, she was filled with trepidation; and, though she had been anxiously looking forward to it with increasing hope, she would now have postponed it, if she could. She had remarked but now, on meeting some of the ministers returning from an audience with the Emperor, how curt had been their salutations, how they had hurried away from her after the barest ceremonious courtesy, as though fearing to be questioned by her; how even the officers of her own household looked furtively at her, and the people outside the palace regarded her with coldness, as though guessing that her reign was almost at an end. Even in her Maids of Honor she thought she saw a change; they seemed less respectful, less observant of the Court etiquette, that Napoleon made de rigueur; more familiar in their manner. Poor woman, no wonder she was sad; every friend seemed to have deserted her; save only St. Just, who was now a Captain of her Guard, and on his fidelity she knew she could rely; but then he was flattered by her marked notice of him, and nursed a sort of languid passion for her.

Suddenly the unhappy woman paused in her pacings to and fro, and started, and her heart throbbed painfully. A firm, sharp step, that she and those about her recognized, could be heard without in the antechamber and rapidly approaching. At once, the ladies rose and placed themselves in an attitude of respectful reverence, in which some fear was mingled. He was not given to control his sentiments, and his courtiers never knew in what mood he might be found.

The door flew open and the Emperor entered. He looked worried and confused. Like the Empress, he was in evening dress. The ladies all bent low before him.

Acknowledging their obeisance with the slightest movement of his head, he passed on towards Josephine.

The moment she had first hoped for, and then dreaded, had arrived. With a mighty effort she strove to close the door upon her fear and to assume a gladness she was far from feeling.

She sprang towards him with a joyous cry, and stretched out her arms to him, but her face was very pale, and there was a hunted expression in her eyes; she was trembling violently. All this Napoleon noted and a frown gathered on his brow. But for this, he would have responded in the same spirit to her tones and gesture. As it was, his greeting was chill and formal, and, the moment it was performed, he added in a cold, harsh tone:

"Come, Josephine, let us walk together in the corridor before dinner."

Filled with a nameless dread, and without a word, the Empress took his arm, and they passed from the apartment, the ladies meanwhile throwing expressive glances at each other. Threading the suite of rooms, they reached the gallery de François Premier. The long corridor, unlighted as it was, looked weird and uncanny in the twilight, and presented an almost endless vista. Its gloom and silence sent a shiver through the Empress; its aspect was so different from what it was when she had seen it last, illumined with thousands of wax candles and filled with courtiers in brilliant uniforms and ladies in elaborate toilettes; the walls echoing with the hum of sprightly conversation, broken every now and then by the rippling laugh of some fair woman. Now, not a sound, but their own footfalls, could be heard. Even the sculptured salamanders seemed to grin maliciously, and the figures on the tapestried walls to frown on her. With a shudder and involuntarily, she tightened her grasp upon her husband's arm.

The Emperor, on his part, strolled on almost joyously, but such joy as was in him was assumed. It was more a sense of satisfaction that an unpleasant business would soon be done with. Try as he might, he could not persuade himself that what he meditated was well. He saw the cruelty of the act to her; yet his Ministers desired it; said it would consolidate his power; that for him to found a dynasty would be good for France. But even now his heart was torn by the emotions that warred within.

At last, involuntarily, a cry of pity broke from him, "My poor Josephine," and he looked down upon her pityingly. She started with alarm; it was coming, what she feared.

"Napoleon," she gasped timidly, "What is it, and why do you look so strangely at me?" She led, almost dragged him, to a seat in a window that looked out upon a quaint old-fashioned garden, in which were yew trees pruned into formal and fantastic shapes, many of which, in the gathering darkness, looked like human figures standing motionless, surrounded by huge animals all still as death.

"Tell your Josephine what troubles you," she resumed in pleading tones, when they were seated. "Forget for one short hour the cares of State, and let us be all in all to one another."

Nervously he clasped her hand in his, and, with eyes cast down upon the ground in very shame at the base part he was about to play, he strove to speak. But his words did not come willingly.

"How—how can I tell you," he began; "but I must, though it cuts me to the heart. Josephine! my dear Josephine! You know how I have loved you!.... To you, to you alone, I owe the only moments of happiness I have tasted in this world. But, Josephine, my destiny is not to be controlled by my desire. My dearest affections must yield to the interests of France. They—the Ministers wish me to separate from you. They—they say that it is necessary for the welfare of France that I should have an heir to follow me in the Empire I have founded. They tell me I must marry again." His voice had sunk lower and lower, till the last words had become all but inaudible.

"And who are they," she cried impetuously, "that dare to tell the conqueror of Egypt, of Italy, of Austria; the ruler of the foremost country in the world, that he must do anything?" Then, changing her tone to one of supplication, she continued. "You talk of marrying again; do I not already enjoy few enough of a wife's privileges, that you should think of putting me away? You do not give me the opportunity of wearying you, for you are so much away on your numerous campaigns. I do not complain, for what is a woman in comparison to affairs of State; but I feel your frequent absences sorely.

"Oh! Napoleon, think how we have loved each other; recall the days of old when you were troubled, and came to Josephine for sympathy and consolation."

She rose to her feet and faced him. "You have raised me to an exalted station, to a position that any woman would be proud of; it is a great thing to be an Empress; doubtless I am the envy of millions of my sex! But it is not the Emperor, it is Napoleon whom I love. These trappings are as naught to me, without your love; this imperial mantle, I cast it from me; this sparkling bauble, I tear it from my brow;" and, suiting her action to her words, she tossed the mantle from her shoulders and dashed her tiara on the ground.

"Sire, I come to you, all powerful, as you now are; I come to you, a suppliant, as you once came to me." She cast herself upon her knees before him. "Oh! do not mock me with the State; what right has it to intervene between two loving hearts, to abrogate God's ordinances? Oh! Napoleon, say you love me." She grovelled at his feet and clasped her arms around his knees; she could scarce proceed for the tears that were streaming down her face and the sobs that she could not repress. "Oh! be Emperor in deed as well as name," she went on in broken accents. "Why should you vex yourself about a son to follow you as Emperor and King, you who can make Emperors and Kings at will? And for the State, you are the State, as Louis le Grand in his time proudly said he was."

Then, seeing his unbending look, "I see my appeal is useless. Say no more, I understand you. I expected this, but the blow is not the less mortal."

She sank exhausted on the floor before him.

Hard and selfish, as he was, he had some heart, and at the sight of her killing grief and the lovely, tear-stained face, that he had never before seen, except wreathed in smiles, a wave of pity for a moment rolled over his resolve, and almost stifled it. Her pleadings had raised strong emotions. He rose and began to pace the gallery, with head bent forward and hands clasped behind his back. "Stay," he said. Then he began to mutter to himself, "Yes, I would I could defy them." His hands twitched nervously. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. "Yes, and I will defy them. Am I not Emperor, and shall they dictate to me? By Heavens, no. They will only cringe before me, when I tell them that I refuse to be coerced by them." His hand strayed unconsciously to his pocket, and touched something. "And yet—" Then all at once his manner changed. A man was advancing along the gallery. It was St. Just, resplendent in his uniform as Captain of the Empress's guards. Napoleon's eye fell on him, and he remembered what Colonel Tremeau had said about him, he had called him the paramour of the Empress.

At sight of him, a frown gathered on the Emperor's brow, and his face became convulsed with rage. "No," he broke out in a voice of thunder, "No, I will not alter my determination. My Ministers are right. Ah! traitress," to Josephine, who had been anxiously watching his relenting mien, but now had uttered a cry, the knell of her expiring hope, "dost think I do not know that, when I am absent, you console yourself with others? It was so from the very first. There was that man who was with you in the days of the Revolution; did you not meet him again in Italy? Then there have been others, I have heard of, but how many I know not. And now this man," pointing to St. Just. He turned savagely on him. "Pray, Sir, what business have you here?"

The Emperor's fury awed St. Just. On entering the gallery he had not known that it was tenanted, though he was looking for Napoleon. "I came, Sire," he answered deprecatingly, "in the exercise of my duty as Captain of the Empress's guard. I was not aware that you and Her Majesty were here, or I should not have so presumed."

"You lie, Sir," roared Napoleon furiously. "You came to spy. Renegade, deserter, traitor, you are always intruding on the scene. But this time you shall not escape me; by Heavens; you shall die, as you have so long deserved!"

Instantly he drew his sword and made a savage cut at the Captain of the Guard, that would have ended that officer's career, had he not stepped nimbly back. Then, smarting under the Emperor's scathing words, and moved by sympathy for the insulted Empress, he did what ever afterwards, when he thought of it, filled him with amazement at his temerity. He drew his sword and placed himself in a position of defense before the Emperor.

The combat began. The Emperor attacked with ungovernable fury; so reckless was he, taking no pains to guard himself, that, had the other chosen, he could several times have run him through, and thus terminated the First Empire; but he kept calm, contenting himself with remaining on the defensive, parrying Napoleon's furious onslaughts, with such skill as he was master of. But to guard oneself in a duel, without taking advantage of openings for attack, when one's opponent is enraged and active, and fights regardless of his own danger, is no easy matter. And St. Just had all and more than he could do, for, presently, the Emperor, in making a furious lunge in tierce, was so far successful that he ripped St. Just's sleeve and slightly wounded his sword arm. This roused the officer's temper, and he began to press Napoleon in his turn, driving him into a corner; though still it was his intention to avoid even pricking him, if he could so far control himself.

At the first onset, Josephine had tried to scream for help, but, so paralyzed with terror was she, that her voice refused to come. So, with wide open eyes and terror-struck, she watched the combat, mute and motionless.

Napoleon, in making a fierce thrust, now slipped and fell upon his knee. He was at his opponent's mercy, as, indeed he had been all along, for all he had not known it.

Burning with the sense of his own injuries, and exasperated beyond control, St. Just had shortened his sword and was about to plunge it into his opponent, when Josephine rushed forward and seized his arm.

"No, no," she cried, "what would you do? It is the Emperor you would slay. More, he is my husband."

"And he would divorce you," St. Just retorted angrily. But Josephine had saved the Emperor. The few words she had uttered had given his assailant time to think, and he became once more master of himself.

Meantime Napoleon had risen to his feet and regained his sword. The Captain of the Empress's guard snapped his own sword across his knee, flung the pieces on the floor, and stood defenseless and erect before the Emperor. Then, as though all that had just passed had never been, he saluted, and said respectfully, "Mons. de Talleyrand desires an audience with Your Majesty; he awaits you in the White Drawing Room."

Boiling with indignation at his defeat, and longing to cut him down or run him through, but conscious that he had received his life at the speaker's hands, the Emperor yet felt that it was impossible to slay an unarmed man, and before the Empress, too. Perhaps it was, in reality, her presence that stayed his hand. At any rate, he lowered his sword. But the look of concentrated malice he turned upon St. Just was fearful to behold. "Why did you not deliver your message when you first intruded here?" he asked in a voice that was hoarse with passion.

"Sire, you scarce gave me the opportunity," was the calm reply.

"Go, Sir," resumed the Emperor. "I give you one hour to quit the palace; if, by that time, you are not gone, then woe betide you; no power on earth shall save you from my vengeance."

Then he turned to Josephine.

"Madame, the King of Westphalia dines with us to-night. See that you be ready to receive him." Then, moving his head in the direction of St. Just, he hissed out the words, "Make hay while you may; you have little time." Then he added sternly and emphatically, "I go to tell Mons. de Talleyrand to arrange for the divorce forthwith."

"Sire, Napoleon, hear me," shrieked the unhappy Empress, and she moved towards him impulsively.

"I have said it," he said coldly, then stepped quickly towards the door.

Josephine staggered back and would have fallen, but that St. Just caught her in his arms and saved her.

At the door Napoleon paused and turned his head, his figure sharply silhouetted upon the panelling, by the moon, which showed up the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor he wore, and accentuated the pallor of his face.

"You have one hour," to St. Just.

He left the gallery, and the door closed with a clang behind him.

The sound roused the Empress and she withdrew herself slowly from St. Just's support, and stumbled to a seat. She looked up at him, terror-stricken and bewildered.

"He is gone from me," she moaned. "I have lost him. Oh! what shall I do, what shall I do? Cruel, cruel!"

She pressed her hands against her head, as though to still its throbbing. Until her first grief should have spent itself, St. Just knew that to attempt to comfort her would be useless; and there was nothing he could say. He stood watching her in silence.

For some time she wept silently. Then, suddenly she sprang up, and her eye fell on the broken sword. She stooped towards it and raised it from the floor.

Divining her intention, St. Just dashed forward and wrested it from her hand. "Not that," he cried; "you must be mad."

"And have I not suffered enough to make me so? Why should I live? I cannot live. Oh! let me die," she wailed.

"Never," he replied impetuously. "There is yet happiness in store for you; life and hope."

"I will live, then; I may help him yet. Give it me," pointing to the broken sword.

"You swear you will not use it?"

"I swear. I shall keep it as a memorial of your fidelity. If ever I should be in dire distress and want your help, I shall send this sword-hilt to you. Then, come to me at once, for I shall need you sorely. Be careful for yourself; for Josephine's sake be careful, and do not needlessly meet danger. It cuts me to the heart to part with you, but you must go."

Her voice was broken with her sobs, and there was a hopelessness about her tone that went straight to her hearer's heart.

He went down on his knee and passionately kissed her hand. A bracelet containing a miniature of herself dropped from her wrist. He stooped and picked it up.

"Keep it, my friend," she said, "in memory of the unhappy Josephine."

She bent forward and brushed his forehead with her lips. "We shall not meet again, except to help him who has rejected me. If I seem unfaithful it is to serve him; to regain his love. But now he loves me not, so this token of affection to a faithful friend is no treason to him. Farewell, my dear, you must not tarry."

But, ere the last words had left her mouth, St. Just had sprung to his feet. Her words and the touch of her lips upon his brow had sent the blood coursing madly through his veins. His heart was in a ferment. Before she had divined his purpose, he had taken her in his arms and was passionately kissing her. Was it his fancy only, or did she really return his kisses? At least, she showed no resentment. "Farewell," again she murmured faintly. She struggled slightly to free herself, and he released her.

Then he ran to an open window and, with one last look at her, he vaulted through it and sped across the garden. On he flew, scarce noticing where he went, intent only on cutting one of the main avenues, for the time was going on, and his hour of grace would soon be spent; and then, unless he should be well clear of the precincts of the palace, the full weight of Napoleon's fury would be hurled at him. Soon he struck into a broad drive, and, by following this, it led him to the Porte Dauphin. Passing through the gate, he was hurrying onwards, when he felt a slight touch on his arm. With a start, he checked his footsteps and, not knowing whether it proceeded from friend or foe, instinctively he laid his hand upon his sword. He saw two figures in the darkness, a man and a boy; the man holding two horses by the bridles.

A silvery laugh rang out upon the stillness of the night and, the next moment, two voices spoke, together:—"Master!" "Henri!" The speakers were Mahmoud and his mistress.

"Halima!" cried St. Just astounded. "How come you here?"

"Am I not everywhere where my vengeance leads me?" she answered gayly. "And I fancy I was wanted here. Deluded schemer, it is useless trying to keep me in the dark; my agents have kept me informed of all your doings. So you have been doing a little plotting on your own account—and a little philandering too, eh? Oh! fie, you who swore that you had eyes for no other woman, that your life was torture when away from me. Oh! faithless, cruel deceiver!" And again her laughter rang out merrily.

It was so plainly unaffected, too, that even a less jealous man than was St. Just could not have avoided the conviction that he had not been greatly missed; that his wife had found consolation in another quarter. He bit his lip in mortification.

"Curses on Abdallah!" he muttered.

"Nay, curse him not, my dear," she answered airily; "he has not lowered you in my esteem. I blame you not; for, unwittingly, you have done good service. 'Tis, is't not, that the Emperor divorces Josephine?"

He nodded; he was offended at her banter, and somewhat shamed.

"Good," she replied, referring to the divorce. "It is the beginning of the end. Now tell me more."

Rapidly he sketched out what had passed, detailing Napoleon's fury and his threat to have him shot, unless he were away at once.

When he had concluded. "You have no time to lose, my dear," she said. "Mount, mount quickly, and ride away. They must not find you here. Make your way with all speed to England; there, at least, you will be safe."

"And you?" he asked.

"I shall be not long after you. Await me there. For the moment, I have work in France. My vengeance is working towards its climax. It will surely come, I know, but how soon I know not. Now go, dear."

He embraced her tenderly. "Oh! Halima, my best-beloved," he said, "why cannot we always be together?" Then he mounted one of the horses and galloped off into the blackness of the night.

CAPTIVE, BUT EMPEROR STILL.

EPOCH IV.

CAPTIVE, BUT EMPEROR STILL.

CHAPTER I.

It is to be regretted that of St. Just's MS., from which this story is compiled, many pages have been lost. The reader will have noticed that there are several gaps in the narrative—years in which his time is unaccounted for. From the numbering of the leaves preserved, it appears that more than a hundred pages are missing, pages that cover the period between the moment when St. Just left Halima after his duel with Napoleon in November, 1809, and the Emperor's abdication at Fontainebleau, 1814.

So that it is impossible to state with certainty whether, when St. Just rode away from his wife with the intention of gaining England, and informing the British Government of Napoleon's contemplated divorce, he carried out his purpose. This much however is known, that, by some means he managed to escape the Emperor's vengeance. How he occupied himself in the five years' interval cannot now be ascertained; but, from allusions in the subsequent portions of his MS. it would seem that for a portion of the time he served in the Russian Army, and took part in harassing Napoleon in his retreat from Moscow. How he got to Russia is not clear; but it is likely enough that he was sent there by the British Government with despatches for the Emperor Alexander.

Doubtless he was engaged in many adventures, at the instigation of his wife, but of these there is no account.

In the five years that had elapsed, great changes had taken place. Napoleon, no longer Emperor of the French, was confined to the island of Elba, in which he exercised a petty sovereignty; having been driven from his country by the treachery of his Counsellors and Marshals, backed up by the victorious forces of the Allies.

Halima was exultant at his downfall, in which, somehow, she persuaded herself she had had a hand. True, she had been plotting against him for years, but it may well be doubted that her actions had had the slightest influence on events; but she thought so, and was, in consequence content.

Josephine, the one woman who had had true and lasting love for the Emperor, was dead, her end, no doubt, accelerated by the divorce.

Louis XVIII was king of France, but, with the usual obstinacy of the Bourbons, he failed to recognize the enormous change that had taken place in the temper and sentiment of the people; and already there were signs, for those who had the wit to understand them, that, under the surface there were smoldering embers of discontent that would burn fiercely at the first fanning. But the powers in France were unaware of it, and the deluded monarch sat his throne in cheerful self-sufficiency.

But it is with England, not with France, that the reader has now to do.

The first of January in the year 1815 was remarkable for its mildness, enhanced, in the locality which was the scene of the events next to be recorded, by the blazing sun which was pouring its rays generously upon the earth from the blue expanse of cloudless sky, making the sap stir in the leafless trees, and dyeing the herbage a more vivid green.

In the Spring and Summer the scene would have been a lovely one, and even now, it was not without its charms—the charms that belong to an English landscape.

Away in the distance lay in the Sussex Downs, sheltering from the cold blasts from the North, a roomy, weather-beaten, red-brick house, at present the abode of Halima and St. Just. A short distance from this house, and looking down upon it, was Wolstonbury Hill, nestling beneath which was the little church of Hurstpierpoint; the spire only was visible from the house, by reason of the trees that intervened. Away to the right was Devil's Dyke, and still further in the same direction lay Shoreham Gap. Extending the range of his vision the gazer would discern a clump of trees, called Chantingbury Ring, a well-known landmark for miles round—the sailors say that, coming up channel, you can see it thirty miles away.

In the old-fashioned garden that surrounded the house and was bounded by the high road between London and Brighton—about ten miles distant from the house—strolled on this same first of January, a lady and a gentleman. Let it be said at once that they were Halima and St. Just. Her age at this time was about three and thirty. She was still a lovely woman, but had parted with her girlish looks. Some might even think that her increased years had added to her charms; there was no waning in them; only maturity; and from her intercourse with high-bred men and women, she had acquired an ease of manner, a dignity of presence and a wit and polish in her conversation that, with her quick intelligence, made her more fascinating even than of yore. Withal, she had lost none of her strong will power and imperiousness. She was dressed handsomely, but more quietly than heretofore.

As for St. Just, he was noticeably aged, though the change in him in the last five years was not so great as in the five that had preceded them. He walked with a slight limp, the result of a wound received in Spain.

Presently they halted in their walk, and stood silently watching the sun just beginning to slip behind the leafless trees that crowned a little knoll to the West. At the same time the chime of distant bells struck on their ears.

St. Just was the first to break the silence.

"Art happy, chérie, in the reflection that your vengeance is complete; that our enemy, Napoleon, no longer the great, is exiled; that my wanderings about the Continent are over, and that now we can be all in all to one another."

"But is it really true?" she asked.

"True enough, my dearest. Did you not read it in the newspaper I brought last week, when I went to London?"

"But newspapers oft lie. I am still not easy. You know, or ought to by this time, that I depend on what my spirits tell me; not altogether on what is common knowledge. And they have told me—"

"Hush! little woman, not so loud; you may be overheard. As it is, these English about here are suspicious of us, because we're French; what would they think, should they see and hear you at your incantations? I believe they would burn you as a witch."

She burst into a merry, careless laugh. "They must catch me first," she said.

But he did not join in her merriment.

"Don't laugh, my dear," he said. "If harm should come to you—" he sighed.

"No harm will come to me. If any should threaten me, my spirits would forewarn me of it."

They resumed their walk in silence, pacing up and down the graveled walks. He seemed moody and disturbed.

By this time the sun had disappeared, and the air had become cold and raw. Halima shivered. "I shall go in, Henri," she said. "It is getting cold. This country is not like our sunny France." After a moment's pause, she went on complainingly, "Where are your reflections straying to?"

"I was thinking," he replied in an absent tone, "of what I had been reading in the newspaper. I was thinking of the unhappy woman who was Napoleon's wife."

"Of Marie Louise?" she asked.

"No, of Josephine."

"Ah! I might have expected it," she retorted angrily and there was a dangerous light in her eyes, that might have warned him. But it only angered him. He turned upon her sharply.

"You sneer, but she was a noble woman. I am proud to admit that she regarded me with favor. I would have done much for her. But for your devilish ingenuity and persistent malice, I might have saved him for her sake."

"That you could not have done," she answered scornfully, "against my will."

"Pray how?"

"Recall to your mind the eve of the battle of Wagram. Ah! you would have made him believe in her, but for me. Abdallah was my agent, as you know."

St. Just nodded in assent.

"He was watched by one of the Empress's Maids of Honor."

"Yes; go on," interposed the man, in a tone of unnatural calm. He was putting a rein on his excitement. He felt that he was about to get an insight into circumstances that had puzzled him.

"She was in the power of her lover," resumed Halima, "a Colonel of the Guard. What was his name? Ah!" after a moment's pause, "Tremeau. He was watched by the palace Marshal, who was in the pay of Fouché. Fouché had his own interest to serve, and was in league with Talleyrand; and he, in his turn, was intriguing with Pitt and Malmesbury and other enemies of Napoleon. And I was in it all; I knew all that was going on, and helped to pull the strings. I was kept informed of all your doings at Fontainebleau, my dear—amours and all."

"I see," he said; "spy upon spy."

"V'là!" she exclaimed, airily, "One must watch one's husband when he is away. I know something of the ways of men. I always followed your movements, when you were traveling."

"Except in Spain."

"No, not even excepting Spain, for there I was kept au courant by Tremeau, who, you may remember, was in that country after Napoleon's second marriage. He was in favor with Marshal Soult, and betrayed his plans to Wellington. Yes, my friend, I had a finger in the Spanish pie, not less than in other articles of Napoleon's menu."

"But my missions?"

"Blinds, my innocent, mere blinds; the instructions in your papers were not intended to be acted on. They were written to mislead, in case they should be taken from you. I soon found out that you were only half in earnest about Napoleon; that, once under the glamour of his presence, you would return to your allegiance to him. Fortunately, I discovered this in time. Had you been trusted, you might have wrought irreparable mischief."

"Then I was played with all along?" was his moody comment.

"I would not put it so offensively as that, my friend. Let us say that the part you played was not a leading one; but you filled your rôle, such as it was, with credit. A stronger part would, I fear, have proved too much for you. You may thank me, therefore, that you were not cast for the jeune premier."

She laughed, a little scornful laugh that was not pleasant to the hearer.

For a few seconds, St. Just made no rejoinder. Then, looking at her sternly, he enquired, "Do you tell me seriously that you had anything to do with Tremeau's listening to my conversation with Josephine at St. Cloud, and afterwards forestalling me in my mission to the Emperor?"

"Certainly I do."

"You did an innocent woman a grievous wrong; what harm had she ever done to you?"

"None that I know of. I was not jealous of her, if you suggest that. I did not mind your philandering with her in my absence. Without vanity, I think I might put my attractions in the scale with hers. No, I had not the least animus against her; she was a quantité négligeable, a victim to the odium Napoleon would incur by her divorce."

"'Twas a heartless act. Had you no consideration for your fellow woman?"

"What thought had Buonaparte for me, when he robbed me of my innocence?" she retorted sharply.

He recoiled from her, as though he had been struck. "Ah! don't," he said imploringly. "Why remind me of it? It was almost blotted from my mind."

"But never from mine," and her eyes looked hard and cruel, and gleamed with a vindictive fire.

She tripped away from him, and he turned round to watch her until she disappeared into the house. A deep sigh escaped him. For the last ten years—the best of his life and hers—he had been her husband in little more than name; no sooner had he returned from one mission, than he had been despatched upon another. Now he came to think of it, he had been the mere instrument of her revenge, a tool in her hands, a sort of confidential servant; and, even so, not wholly trusted. The position irked him terribly, and, for the first time in his life, a something, that he hardly durst acknowledge as regret, stole over him, that they had ever met.

"I wonder what would have happened," he said half aloud, "if I had never left Napoleon."

He sighed again, then began slowly moving to the house.

A noise of shouting in the distance made him check his steps. He listened; the sound came nearer, and still nearer. Then, besides the shouting, he could distinguish the clattering of horses' hoofs and the pattering of running feet. Plainly, men mounted and on foot were hurrying along the high road in chase of somebody or something. And now a cry fell on his ear, that took him back to the bygone days—to France.

"A moi, mes amis; à moi, au secours!"

Without a moment's hesitation, St. Just dashed down the carriage way in the direction of the sounds. When he reached the gates, he saw an emaciated figure, panting and exhausted, running down the road; and, about a hundred yards behind the fugitive, some dragoons, with an officer at their head. The officer was waving his sword and shouting, "Stop him, stop him, in the king's name. He is a French prisoner escaped from Lewes." Some laborers in the neighborhood were following the dragoons. Other villagers hearing the noise, came up from the opposite direction with lanterns, to see what it was about.

Thus hemmed in, the hunted creature had no chance of escape. Seeing this, he would have given up the attempt and quietly submitted to re-capture; when St. Just, knowing, or rather guessing, that those who were pursuing him knew no French, shouted to him, "A moi, pour France."

The fugitive dashed on, and fell palpitating at St. Just's feet.

"The very man I sought," he gasped. "Take it." And St. Just felt a small, but weighty, parcel thrust into his hands, under cover of the darkness. To save the man from capture was impossible, for the soldiers were close upon him; and St. Just had only time to conceal the packet, when the commander of the dragoons rode up, a few yards in advance of his men. The fugitive had scrambled to his feet.

"Caught, you French rascal," exclaimed the officer, striking at him with the flat of his sword. The man bent to dodge the blow, and then, before anyone could divine his purpose, he made a dash at the holster before the saddle, and seized one of the officer's pistols. In an instant he had fired.

His aim was true. The officer swayed in his saddle, bent forward, then rolled off his horse to the ground, shot through the heart. But, before this had happened, there was another explosion. The assassin had raised the pistol to his head and fired the second barrel. He dropped to the ground and lay huddled up beside his victim. At the same moment, the foremost trooper rode up and dismounted to examine the body of his officer. He was stone dead.

The villagers crowded round the other man. He moved slightly. St. Just bent over him. The wounded Frenchman murmured the words, "May the good God forgive my sin;" then a shiver passed through his frame and he was dead. St. Just examined the man's features by the lantern's light, and was shocked to recognize in them Tremeau, the man of whom he and his wife had but now been talking.

The other soldiers had now come up, and the sergeant dismounted and proceeded to search the body. There was nothing on him, but the rags that covered him.

The sergeant scratched his head and seemed perplexed. How to remove two bodies on the high road with no proper means of transport, and whither he should take them, required deliberation.

He was considerably relieved, accordingly, when a short, broadset man, with gray whiskers and a florid face, and dressed like a country gentleman, came up. He had half a dozen greyhounds with him. The villagers made way for him and touched their caps respectfully.

"It is the squire, a magistrate," St. Just muttered to the Sergeant; "He will see to this business."

"Hullo! neighbors, what's the matter?" asked the squire.

He spoke in a sharp, jerky manner, with a strong Sussex intonation. Provincialisms were more marked then, than in these railroad days.

St. Just who had been the nearest witness to the tragedy, told the magistrate what had occurred, omitting however, the fact of Tremeau's having handed him the packet, for no one had seen the transfer.

"The damnable villain!" was the squire's comment, when St. Just had finished. "Thank God, we have done with these murderous French at last. Boney has been so soundly thrashed, that he will never work more mischief." Which showed that the squire did not excel in prophecy. But the villagers held the same opinion. "You're right there, Squire; we've done with Boney at last, but he's took a deal of doing," assented one, who seemed to take the lead. The others sent up a little cheer, but the grim sergeant only nodded.

"Take both bodies to the Hall," the Squire resumed. "I will communicate with the coroner; the inquest can be held there. You, Mons. St. Just, will, of course, attend it. And you, Sergeant."

St. Just assented, then wished the Squire good-evening and withdrew. He was anxious to put the packet in a place of safety for future examination, when he should be alone; for now, he expected his wife to come out every moment, to inquire the meaning of the disturbance; she must have heard the shots.

When he reached his study, he took the packet from his pocket and examined the outside. It was stitched up in a sleeve of French Guardsman's coat, and greatly to his surprise, he found it was addressed to himself.

"Major St. Just

England."

Then it really had been meant for him. How fortunate that he had happened to be on the spot. He had supposed, naturally, that it concerned Colonel Tremeau, or some friend of his, and that he himself had been intended only as a messenger for its delivery.

He locked it up in his escritoire, and then went to seek his wife.

Later, another surprise awaited him, for, at the inquest, he discovered that the murdered officer was that very Captain Anson who, ten years before, had driven with him, a prisoner, along that same road, when on his way, unknowingly, to Trafalgar.

CHAPTER II.

It was late the same night, or, to be precise, at an early hour—long before day-break—on the following morning, before St. Just found an opportunity of examining the packet that had so strangely reached his hands; for Halima was never fond of retiring early for the night. But, at last, she went to bed, and then St. Just betook himself to the room he called his own.

It was a cozy, pleasant room, and, at this time, a cheering fire was blazing in the grate. As he glanced around, his eye fell on the various familiar objects gathered in his journeyings and associated with his profession. Over the mantelpiece was the sword that he had worn in Egypt; while, in a small glass case below it, was the little reddish yellow brick of gold that he and Halima had picked up by the lake, beneath which had lain the subterranean city. In the bookcase on his right were three calf-bound volumes found at Moscow in the ruins of the Kremlin. Two of these were stamped with Napoleon's arms, the third displayed the Imperial arms of Russia.

He glanced at these and other memorials of his travels; then, with a sigh for what he might have done and been, but for his infatuation for the dark-eyed beauty who controlled him, he stepped to the escritoire and took out the packet.

Then a curious hesitation came upon him: a sort of fear of the news it might contain. He turned the packet about in his hands, his fingers trembling, and again carefully scrutinized the address. He did not recognize the writing and tried to think out the writer's personality.

At last he murmured, "Why do I hesitate? Why do I fear, I who have thrice braved Napoleon's wrath, and remained unscathed? Pshaw! I can have nothing to fear, so here goes."

And, with a hand that shook, for all the bravery of his words, he took a pair of scissors from the table and cut the stitches that secured the wrapper.

On removing this, what first met his gaze was a small packet carefully secured in oilskin. It was sealed with a seal that made his heart beat faster, and brought the tears to his eyes; for in the impression he recognized the cipher of the Empress Josephine.

This packet was addressed:

"S. M. I. L'Empereur Napoleon."

St. Just laid it down and took up a second package, heavier and bulkier than the first. This was addressed to himself and was in Josephine's handwriting.

"To Major St. Just,

Greeting and Farewell."

This, also, he laid down, but with a sigh. He would open it when he had satisfied himself as to the remaining contents of the parcel. They were two pieces of English newspaper covered with manuscripts in French. Translated, the words ran as follows:

"A word from the lips of Charles Tremeau, formerly Colonel of the Imperial Guard, written with all sincerity at the House at Lewes to Mons. St. Just.

"Sir, knowing that my life, since I was so badly wounded in the fight at Vittoria in Spain, can be but of short duration, I hasten to send to you—if by any chance it can be sent—the enclosed packet, which was handed to me by the Empress Josephine, with instructions to forward it to you, in order that you might warn the Emperor of the dangers threatening him. It was meant to reach you last year, when you were in Paris. I pray you lose no time, when this and the enclosures find you. I have to ask your forgiveness for a breach of trust I now confess.

"Thinking that the papers entrusted to me by the Empress might implicate you and her in the Emperor's estimation, and thus make capital for myself, I opened the packet and made myself master of its contents. Hardly had I done so when I was forced to flee from Paris on account of Fouché, who was seeking me, and into whose clutches I had no mind to fall. Accordingly, I bargained for a passage to England with one Slade, of Brighton, a Sussex fisherman, then in the Port of Havre. Unfortunately for me, when we landed, he was arrested by the Custom House officers as a smuggler, and I with him. We were marched off to Lewes jail, where we have been incarcerated for the past two months. Alas! alas! most bitterly I repent my folly and dishonorable conduct.

"At my wife's instance, I took copies of these papers and sent them to the English Government, hoping they would set me free. This was a month ago, and I have heard nothing. Perhaps they have deposited them among their Archives, labeled as the wanderings of a lunatic! If so, the worse for them, but it is right that you should know what I have done; then you will be on your guard.

"It only remains for me to charge you to deliver the enclosed papers—they are the originals from the Empress—to the Emperor at Elba.

"This is written in the hope that I may find the means for it to reach you.

(Signed) C. Tremeau,

Chef de bataillon."

Below was added later:

"An opportunity for escape presents itself, or so we hope. To-morrow, all being well, I shall deliver these in person. Slade and I have arranged to escape together. We shall separate outside the jail and meet afterwards at his house near the village of Brighton. I give his address below, in case aught should befall me after I have seen you. Should this be so, explain my absence. Use him as you think well. He knows all and may be trusted.

"T."

Then followed Slade's address.

In much bewilderment, St. Just put down the papers; then, carefully, actuated by his affection, he took up the packet addressed to him in Josephine's handwriting. On opening it, the first thing that met his eyes was the sword-hilt he had given her at Fontainebleau, five years before. To it was attached a slip of paper with these words on it:

"In my hour of agony I found you a friend. Again I call on you, by the memory of this sword-hilt, to befriend me. I rely on your fidelity to deliver the accompanying packet to the Emperor, my husband, for so do I always regard him in my heart. So, go to him, my faithful and well-beloved friend, so soon as you receive this, I entreat you. Spare no trouble, lose no time, but go at once. You swore to help me, long ago, if ever you could; and I know you will. And now you can, for I count what you do for the Emperor as done for me. Then start, dear friend, on receipt of this, for the sake of France, for Napoleon's, above all, for the sake of her who signs herself, as she ever will,

"Josephine

"Empress Queen."

This letter from the dead hand of the Empress strongly moved St. Just. The tone of piteous entreaty that rang through it touched his heart, and her unswerving faith in him made a strong appeal alike to honor and affection. She did not know his grievance against Napoleon, when she asked him to assist the Emperor; therefore she was not to blame. And he—well, he would ignore it; for the time, at any rate.

"Adorable woman!" he exclaimed. "Faithful, trusting creature! And to think that I shall never see you more! All that is left me is to execute your behest. And I will; you shall not have trusted me in vain. Yes, this very day I'll start."

He glanced at his watch.

"Three. I can be at Brighton by four, if I ride sharply; and four hours later at Havre, with a favorable wind. I ought to reach the Emperor by the 13th or the 14th, at the latest. Yes, I must set out at once. Now to apprise Halima of my absence."

He seated himself at his writing table and, after pondering for a few moments, scribbled the following words:

"My dearest. Important business, the details of which I have not time to enter into now, calls me immediately to London. I will explain on my return.

"Yours, Henri."

This letter he addressed to her and laid on the table, where it would be sure to catch her eye, when she should come down in the morning. While doing so, a grim smile flitted across his face; he was thinking of Halima's rage when she should find that he had gone without consulting her. How she would stamp about and storm; would vent her spleen on the unhappy servants; they would have but a sorry time of it.

He went to the mantelpiece and took down his sword. "This sword," he murmured, "was first drawn in his service, and, if he require it, it shall be again."

He took up the packet for the Emperor, and placed it in his pocket. Then he picked up the Empress's letter to himself and re-read it. This done, he raised it to his lips and kissed it passionately. "I long to keep it in remembrance of her," he murmured, "but it is not safe."

He stepped up to the fire and threw it on the flames, and followed it with Tremeau's confession. He waited till both were shriveled into blackness; then left the room.

Pausing in the hall outside, he unhooked from a peg a riding cloak and a three-cornered hat. From a cabinet he took a pair of strong warm gloves and a brace of pistols, which he carefully loaded and put into his pocket. Then, as noiselessly as possible, he quitted the house by a side-door in the study, and made his way to the stables, which were close at hand.

Here he selected from a stall a suitable roadster, and saddled him with his own hands, not choosing to wake the grooms, who were sleeping soundly in the loft above. Then, he left the stable and proceeded down the avenue, leading the horse.

He had just mounted and was about to turn into the high road, when he received a check he had not bargained for. Barring his way, was a party of mounted men. There was sufficient light—for it was a clear, starlight night—for him to see that they were soldiers, and, by their uniform, hussars. While he was wondering what their presence could portend, a voice called out in peremptory tones, "Halt."

Clearly the words were addressed to him, for the others were already stationary. Desirous of concealing his identity, on the chance that they might be coming to arrest him—not that he was aware of having done anything to warrant it, but that his experience had made him apprehensive—he decided to pretend to be a groom; so, to the challenge he replied in broad Sussex dialect, "Who be you, Sirs, and what be you adoin' here? This here ain't a public road. If you want Shoreham, it's straight on to the right. Let me pass, please, Masters. I've got to ride for all I know for the doctor. My mistress is lying near on death, and master is watching beside her bed. Let me pass, sirs; it is a case of life and death!"

But the men made no attempt to stir, and the voice that had before challenged him called out, "Is not your master named St. Just?"

"Aye, that be's name," rejoined the pseudo-countryman. "Let me get through. I tell you my mistress is mortal bad, and I cannot stop for naught."

"Harkee, sirrah,"—the words came from a fresh voice—"your master is accused of conspiring against the King, and we have a warrant for his arrest. Lead us to him instantly, or it will be the worse for you." And the speaker moved his horse close up to St. Just.

There was something in the man's tone that seemed familiar to St. Just; he was confident he had heard the voice before. And, now that its owner had come alongside of him, he recognized him in an instant. He was Sir Henry Emerson, the man whose despatches he had purloined in the character of the Comte St. Clair.

Taught by the many perils he had passed through, he was generally prepared for an emergency, and never lost his presence of mind. On the present occasion, while the colloquy had been proceeding, he had been casting about for a plan of escape; and had decided on his course of action. Convinced that it was useless to parley farther—more than ever now that he had recognized Sir Henry Emerson—he slashed, with his riding whip, the King's Messenger across the face; then, suddenly wheeling round, he struck his spurs into his horse and leaped the fence that bordered one side of the avenue.

In making his jump, St. Just had been careful to select his spot. It so happened that, for some distance along the other side of the hedge, right down to the high road, the ground had been excavated for sandstone, for which that part of Sussex was celebrated. It was, therefore, full of pits, and anyone, jumping into them in the dark, must sustain serious injury, if not death. St. Just, however, knew the bearings well, and he had chosen the only spot on which one could alight with safety. It gave on to a grassy track that threaded its way between the various quarries and, after a long detour, came out eventually on to the high road, nearer Brighton.

St. Just's action had been so sudden that his would-be captors were thoroughly bewildered and, at first, could not conceive what had become of him. A moment ago he had been there; now he had disappeared. That was all that they were certain of. Sir Henry Emerson gave a yell of mingled pain and rage, and the officer and his men came round him to learn the cause of it. With a volley of curses, he explained. Meanwhile, the sound of horse's hoofs could be heard upon the turf, gradually growing fainter, until they were no longer audible. They knew nothing of the country, so to pursue the fugitive would be useless. Besides, in their opinion, he was not the man they wanted, and he could be dealt with when he came back with the doctor. So they proceeded slowly up the avenue towards the house, Sir Henry Emerson, with a red wheal across his face, cursing and swearing at every step.

Meanwhile St. Just was cantering along the grassy track, and, in due course, gained the lane which led to the high road. Here he breathed his horse for a minute or two, listening the while with pained intentness for the first sound of approaching horsemen: but not a footfall, either of horse or man, was to be heard. The stillness was almost absolute; not a whisper of animated life, or a breath of wind to stir the leafless trees. Once more he gave his horse the rein and quickly urged him to a gallop. Though, for the moment, he had escaped, his pursuers would quickly discover that the man who had slipped through their fingers was the very one they wanted, and would soon be after him. On he sped, sweeping across Sayre's Common as though the devil were at his heels; then, continuing with unabated speed, he gained the foot of Dale Hill, leading to Rye Coombe. Here he dismounted and once more strained his ears for the slightest sound that should import pursuit; but still the silence was profound. He ascended the hill on foot, walking briskly and leading his horse. At the top of the hill he remounted. It was now a level stretch to Brighton, and he made the most of it, thundering along the road at topmost speed, until within half a mile of Brighton; then he moderated his pace. Slade's house was in the outskirts of the village, as Brighton then was, and he pulled up at the fisherman's door, just when the clock of St. Nicholas' Church, not far distant, was chiming half past four.

A sharp knock, a few hurried words, and a little money, and the business was arranged.

One of John Slade's sons, Tommy, a bright-looking lad of two and twenty, who loved anything that savored of adventure, entered heart and soul into the "lark," as he mentally phrased it, and hailed with delight the proposal that he should ride back St. Just's horse to the Plough Inn at Rye Coombe. He was to don the Frenchman's hat and cloak, and he guaranteed to lead his pursuers a pretty race, if they should sight him.

When this matter had been arranged, St. Just disguised himself as a fisherman, and then he and the elder Slade walked quickly up the hill, at whose foot the cottage stood, and struck out for St. Nicholas' Church. Here they turned to the right and, after continuing for a short distance, knocked at the door of one of an isolated group of cottages, where lived the mate of the John Edward, as Slade's sloop was named—after himself.

Roused from his slumbers, and grumbling considerably thereat, Harry Wingfield was quickly told the reason. The sloop was to start, as rapidly as she could be got off, with the French gentleman for Havre or Fécamp, whichever port would be the easier to make.

They made their way down West Street for the shore.

"How is it the sloop comes to be moored here, instead of at Shoreham?" asked St. Just.

"Well, Sir, since father died, I've lived here. Wingfield here," and he jerked his thumb towards the mate, "know'd I'd be wantin' him middlin' early this morning for I'd sent him word. That's why he was so slippy in comin' down when we knocked. I've only just got from Lewes—given 'em the slip, you know—and, if not off pretty sharp, they'll have me. I meant to sail at five this mornin' just on the turn of the tide; so you're only just in time; a little later and I should have flown."

St. Just made a suitable reply, and, by this time, they had reached the bottom of the street. They shaped their way to the "Blockhouse"—or rather, the remains of it—that had been erected by Henry VIII to defend the coast. Below this lay the sloop. Borrowing a boat, they rowed quickly to her. The crew were on board, so the anchor was weighed instantly, the sails were set and the John Edward was headed for the coast of France.

CHAPTER III.

The little sloop John Edward duly made the port of Havre.

Here Fortune smiled upon St. Just, for he learned that a ship was lying in the "roads" on the point of sailing for Naples, and that its captain was an old acquaintance, Captain Brenneau, aforetime commanding the La Flèche. So he started for the owner's office to engage a passage. He parted cordially from the smuggler-fisherman, for they had become very friendly on the passage, and St. Just had told him of his errand to Napoleon. Tremeau had said that Slade was to be trusted, and St. Just thought he would be interested in his movements. He had told him also of Tremeau's tragic end, at which the fisherman had been much affected; he and the French Colonel had seen much of one another in Lewes jail, and had escaped together.

In shaking hands with his late passenger and making him wince with the vigor of his grasp, Slade said heartily, "Good luck go with you, Sir; and, when you return to England, I hope you'll come and see me. No, no, Sir," when St. Just pressed money on him, "I won't take a penny off you. I didn't put to sea on your account, for I was bound to make myself scarce, till things had settled down a bit; and you're a friend of that there Tremeau, a decent chap I will say for a Frenchy."

And, with these farewell words ringing in his ears, and another grip of the honest fellow's hand, St. Just left him and went aboard L'aigle d'or (the Golden Eagle) where he found Captain Brenneau anxiously pacing the quarterdeck, watching the men hoisting in the stores.

He failed to recognize St. Just, dressed, as he was, like a fisherman, and roughly ordered him away. "I will have no loafers (faineants) about my ship;" for St. Just was hanging about, idly gazing at the workers.

St. Just broke into a laugh and recalled himself to the Captain's remembrance, and then proceeded to state the object of his voyage and to ask Brenneau whether he would drop him at Elba. To this the other at once agreed and, on the following day they sailed.

Now, had they proceeded thither direct, Elba should have been reached, ten or eleven days later; but Captain Brenneau had to call at Marseilles to see the owners, and here the vessel was detained for ten days loading further cargo; so that it was not until the first of February that they sighted the little island that now comprised all Napoleon's empire.

It was dark by the time they were near enough to lower a boat.

St. Just bid farewell to the Captain, and took his seat in it; the boat put off, and, in half an hour made the harbor and was brought up by a flight of steps in the harbor wall. Here St. Just got out, and the boat pushed off to make her way back to the ship.

He stood watching the departing boat for about five minutes; and he was on the point of ascending the steps, when he heard voices just above him. He paused to listen.

"I tell you," said one voice, "that to-night he is expected from the country. It is the best chance we have yet had."

"But," said another voice, "he is always guarded; it will be useless."

"Not to-night. He and Bertrand return alone to meet ——," St. Just could not catch the name—"who brings intelligence from Pauline."

"And where do you propose to stop him?"

"At the ——" again the word was inaudible to St. Just.

"You will take your stand, hat in hand, in the middle of the road; take this dog with you, leading it with a string, as though you were blind, and beg alms of the Emperor. Then, when the carriage has stopped to avoid running over you, lean forward and fire both pistols at him. He will be seated on the right side, remember."

"And what part do you take?"

"We cover your retreat."

"Is it certain that this man has promised us a ship?"

"Yes, yes; an hour ago, when the fog lifted, I saw her standing off the shore. And a boat to take us to her is at this moment waiting at the spot arranged."

St. Just was horrified at what he heard. Clearly there was on foot a plot to assassinate the Emperor. What could he do to circumvent it? Not knowing where to find Napoleon, he could not warn him. He was an absolute stranger in the place, too. And no time was to be lost; for, so far as he could tell, the attack might be made at any moment. Certainly it was to be to-night. His agitation became terrible, while he vainly tried to puzzle out some plan of saving Napoleon's life. He was in a trap, for his only means of getting away from where he was, was by the steps, and these men were at the top. For a certainty they would know that he had overheard their conversation, when he should show himself, and, for their own safety, would attack him, in the hope of silencing him for ever. Doubtless he could secure his own safety by remaining where he was, until they should have gone. But then, the Emperor? He had come all the way from England on what he regarded as a sacred trust from Josephine, to help the Emperor to the utmost of his power, and, come what might, this time he would not betray his trust. He was periling his life in appearing before the Emperor; by facing the conspirators above, he would be but anticipating danger. And this he made up his mind to do. He would steal noiselessly up the steps, and, the moment he gained the top, without a word, he would fall upon these men. Two circumstances were in his favor—the start they would receive when he suddenly burst upon them; and the advantages that lay in striking the first blow. Besides this, he was convinced, by what he had overheard, that they were cowards.

Silently he removed his cloak, lest it should impede his movements, and laid it on the steps. Then he examined his pistols—they were double-barreled—to see that they were duly primed. Satisfied on this point, he placed one in the right breast pocket of his coat, so that his left hand could grasp it readily; and the other in a pocket in the skirt. Next, slowly and with the utmost care, lest the clink of metal should be heard, he withdrew his sword from the scabbard. Then, step by step and bending low, he crept up the flight of stairs, pausing at each to steady himself. No Red Indian bent on falling upon his enemy in his sleep could have moved more stealthily. He could still hear the men above him talking, but their tones were lower than before, and his mind was so intent on his own movements that he caught only a word or two now and then. So far as he could judge from the different intonations, three men were talking. But he had no fear. He had many faults, but want of courage, when it came to fighting, was not one of them. Besides, in the present instance, his opponents might be accounted as only two, for he would cut down one almost before they would know that they were attacked.

On, like a tiger crouching and dragging himself slowly towards his unsuspecting prey, he glided, mounting ever higher; until, at last, he was within three steps of the top. The restraint he had placed upon himself in his efforts to make no noise, scarce even to breathe, had made him short of breath; so he paused for a moment to regain it, preparatory to the rush he meditated.

It was a minute before he could breathe easily. Then, with a dash, he was at the top of the steps and rushing at the men. There were three of them, as he had thought, and they were standing about two yards from where he had landed, all close together and talking in low tones. There was no one else in sight. They started apart, on seeing him, with an exclamation of alarm; but he was on them almost before it had left their lips. There was a cry of pain, then a groan, as St. Just's swift weapon was withdrawn, and the man nearest to him lay writhing on the ground. The other two, seeing their companion fall and realizing the imminent peril they were in, unsheathed their daggers, and, in an instant almost, had rolled their cloaks round their left arms—they were hanging over them at the time, and by a rapid whirling movement of the wearers' arms, they were coiled round—and prepared to defend their lives. They felt it would be useless to attempt to fly. St. Just saw that he had all his work to do. They dodged about him with the activity of cats, always keeping at a safe distance, but now and then making feints at advancing, and one or the other continually trying to attack him from behind. He had to keep turning round, whirling his sword about the while, with such velocity that sometimes it seemed to be multiplied by three or four. He began to be apprehensive of the result, for the men were young and agile, and seemed to be untiring. So active were they, that he feared to attempt to withdraw his pistol, lest at that moment they should take him unawares. The fight had now been going on for several minutes, and St. Just's breath was failing him. He had not bargained for so sharp a contest. He could not last much longer. Becoming desperate at this reflection, he rushed frantically, with sword uplifted, at the nearest of his assailants, regardless of himself. But luck befriended him. In his hurry to avoid the sudden onslaught, the man struck his foot against something and lost his balance. Before he could recover it, St. Just's sword had reached him and inflicted an awful gash in his neck, that brought him to the ground. At the same instant St. Just felt a sharp pain in his left arm. Aiming at his back in the hope of striking his heart, the other man had missed the spot, owing to a movement on St. Just's part, so that the blow had descended on his arm. Feeling the smart, St. Just turned quickly. His assailant was too close for him to cut or pierce him with his sword, but he raised his hand and brought the hilt down on the man's head, with all his force. The man dropped like a stone.

St. Just was laboring painfully with his efforts, and he rested on his sword to take his breath and to think things out.

"The Emperor is saved for to-night," he gasped, when he was able to speak; "but it was tough work, I was nearly done for; I could not have held out much longer."

When he had recovered himself he went down the steps to regain his cloak. He threw it over his shoulders and went up again. Then, without heeding the prostrate men, and caring little whether they were alive or dead, he set off at a brisk walk, intending to make inquiries how he was to reach the Emperor.

He had just got beyond the precincts of the harbor, when he heard a step and saw a light approaching. The man who bore it came quickly on, and, in another minute, was close to him. A lantern was held up to him, and a face peered into his.

St. Just was dumfounded; the man was his old comrade, Garraud.

"Garraud! don't you know me?" he exclaimed. "I'm St. Just."

From his action, Garraud might have seen a specter. He started so violently that he dropped the lantern. Then, "My God! St. Just, is it really you?" he said, "I thought you dead. And what brings you here?"

St. Just told him of his errand from the dead Empress, and then went on to speak about the plot he had overheard, and how he had dealt with the conspirators.

"Heavens! what a narrow escape," cried Garraud. "We must alarm the guard at once, and seek for the others. There must be more in this affair than the three you have disposed of. You seem to be continually in adventures, my friend."

They walked away together, and, ten minutes later, a dozen Polish lancers were trotting quickly down the road by which the Emperor was expected, carrying a message from St. Just, confirmed by Garraud.

Then the two reunited friends made their way to the Palace, as the tumbledown building the Emperor occupied was called, where there was as much ceremony as had been observed at the Tuileries and Fontainebleau in the olden days.

Two hours later, St. Just was summoned to the Emperor's presence, being ushered in by General Bertrand.

The apartment was poorly furnished; the contrast to Fontainebleau struck St. Just with amazement. A few gilt chairs from the Tuileries were scattered about the room, serving merely to emphasize its bareness; in the center was a long trestle table, on which was spread a large map of the island; a small writing table stood in one corner, and along the side of a wall an old chintz-covered sofa. These completed all the furniture.

The Emperor at the moment of St. Just's entrance was standing before the fire-place, pressing down the blazing logs in it with his foot, a trick of his.

He was wearing a very old uniform of the Guards, his only decoration being the cross of the Legion of Honor; his boots were dirty, and, altogether, there was a general appearance of slovenliness about him. He was even paler than when St. Just had last seen him, and he looked anxious and dissatisfied. He had grown stouter, too. He was wearing his cocked hat, but it was pushed off from his brow, and was balanced on the back of his head. But, despite the deterioration in his appearance, there was still an air of majesty, and he had not lost his commanding mien.

As it had ever been with him in Napoleon's presence, St. Just felt awed, and, when the Emperor turned round, he knelt at his feet and kissed his hand.

"Rise, Sir, rise," said the great man sharply. "We look not for the ceremonial here that was the rule in France."

St Just rose to his feet. "I have the honor, Sire," he said, with great respect, "to be the bearer of information for your private ear."

"Go, Bertrand," said the Emperor instantly, without replying to St. Just. "Leave me with this gentleman; but remain within call." Then, when the Marshal had left the room, he continued to St. Just, "Now Sir! Your message must needs be pressing when you dare to present yourself to me, after what occurred when last we met. I have not forgotten that I have an account to settle with you. Methinks your courage exceeds your judgment."

This was not an encouraging reception, and while St. Just hesitated, he went on speaking in still sharper tones, "Come Sir, explain why you are here."

He paused for St. Just's reply, and began to pace the room impatiently.

"Sire," replied St. Just, "I need no reminder of the circumstances of our last meeting, and I take this opportunity of expressing my contrition for my conduct on that occasion, and praying your forgiveness. It is in accordance with a promise then given to the Empress that I am here to-night. On the first day of the New Year I received this packet, accompanied by a letter from Her Majesty, charging me to deliver it to you. Coming as it did from a hand then cold in death, I regarded it as a sacred trust, and instantly I started to fulfill it."

He handed the packet to the Emperor, who immediately asked how it had come into his possession.

St. Just told him, and of Tremeau's letter to him and his tragic end. Also of Tremeau's breach of trust in having opened the packet and sent a copy of its contents to the English Government. Then he gave a rapid sketch of the incidents of his start from home, up to the moment of his arrival at Elba, winding up with an account of the conversation he had overheard on landing, and of his encounter with the men who were plotting to assassinate the Emperor.

Napoleon listened to him attentively, without a word. His countenance was absolutely immobile; so far as any one could judge from looking at it, St. Just's narration was no concern of his; but, all the while, he was weighing in his mind whether the speaker was to be believed. More than once he had broken his trust; he might be lying now.

"Have you anything to add?" he asked in a cold, impassive tone, when St. Just had finished speaking.

St. Just was in great pain; his wounded arm was smarting terribly; he had lost a great deal of blood, there was a curious dizziness in his head, and a strange weakness was creeping over him; he felt unequal to further conversation. But, making a strong effort, he replied, "Only this, if Your Majesty will forgive my boldness; but my loyalty to your person gives me courage. Once before, upon the eve of Wagram, I brought you State papers from the Empress, containing grave intelligence. You doubted their trustworthiness and destroyed them. I cannot but think that, had Your Majesty acted on that information, affairs would have shaped themselves for you more fortunately. And now, a second time, I bring you a despatch from her. I have not a suspicion of its contents, but, from the earnest entreaty of her letter that I should convey her packet to you with my own hand and with the utmost speed, I know they must be of the gravest moment to Your Majesty. Oh! Sire," he continued with impassioned earnestness, "if a humble person, such as I am, dare advise, I beseech you, this time to be guided by the Empress. Your interests were ever nearer to her heart than were all others. I—know—I risk—my—"

He tottered, sank into a chair, then rolled on to the floor in a swoon.

When he recovered consciousness, he found himself lying in the anteroom, and Garraud bending over him. He stared vacantly into his friend's face. "What has happened?" he stammered, "where am I?"

"Bravo! my friend," cried Garraud cheerfully, "you're all right now; you fainted, you know; lost a good deal of blood from your wound; over-excitement, and so on. But you must keep quiet. Don't talk, but listen; the Emperor is now closeted with his suite. You may be wanted."

"I recollect now," replied St. Just. "I was with the Emperor, and I swooned; but I am well enough now; only a trifle weak." And, with a little struggle, he raised himself and sat upright.

Soon afterwards, General Bertrand entered with a smiling face.

"If you are well enough, Mons. St. Just," he said, "the Emperor desires to see you at once."

St. Just rose slowly; his arm was in a sling; unknown to him, Napoleon's surgeon had attended to him by express command, and had bound up his wound.

In the adjoining room he found the Emperor, surrounded by his suite. When he entered, the words he heard rejoiced not less than they amazed him.

"Gentlemen," the Emperor was saying, "we leave for Paris the moment it can possibly be arranged. France calls us, and we, her sons, must obey her summons. She needs her Emperor, and she shall not need in vain. Therefore, prepare to start; but not a word of our intentions must be breathed outside these walls. You may now retire; all but Mons. St. Just, with whom I desire a word or two." He bent his head slightly in token of dismissal. All bowed low before him and then filed out; all, except St. Just, who stood awaiting Napoleon's will with inward trepidation.

But he was quickly reassured, for, the moment they were left alone, the Emperor advanced to him with a pleased expression, and held out his hand.

"Mons. St. Just," he said, "I wish to take your hand in token of forgiveness. I believe I wronged you.

"Had I, last April, received the news that you, at the risk of your life, have brought me, I should never have quitted Paris. As you have just heard me say, I am going to return; and, in consequence of the intelligence of which you have been the bearer. In token of my appreciation of your services, I hand you this. I will not say, live up to it, for I know you will."

He detached from his coat the decoration of the Legion of Honor, and handed it to St. Just.

St. Just was overwhelmed at the unexpected honor and, while he took it, was at a loss for words; but his face expressed all that was in his mind.

"But—but, Sire," at last he stammered, "this is the cross of a Commandant!"

"Quite so," replied Napoleon reassuringly; "and, to give you the status to support the dignity, I create you Count of Elba, and will see that you be endowed with a sufficient income. Now, I will not keep you longer, for you require rest. Don't stay to thank me, Count. Bertrand shall make out your patent of nobility to-morrow."

So St. Just, murmuring his thanks and protests of fidelity, but scarce knowing what he was doing, bowed low to the Emperor and withdrew.

Apparently St. Just never received his patent, for the following note forms a portion of his MS.:

"It was never done. Bertrand meant to do it, but it got put off from time to time, owing to his multifarious occupations; and on February 25th we sailed; I have never seen my titular island since, though I still have, at this time of writing, my cross. 4 June 1820."

CHAPTER IV.

After Napoleon's landing in France on his escape from Elba, events moved fast. As everyone knows, his progress from the coast to Paris was a triumphal march; the people and the soldiers alike receiving him with effusion. The generals sent to effect his capture became magnetized by his presence and, instead of arresting him as a conspirator, hailed him with acclamation as their leader and enrolled themselves beneath his standard. Their soldiers followed them with the wildest enthusiasm, fresh troops successively sent forward to oppose him, taking the same course; so that, by the time he reached the capital, he was at the head of a powerful army, mostly veterans and commanded by the finest generals in the world. Thus, there was no one left to bar his progress; the opposition had melted away; such leading men as had not cast in their lot with his, had fled the country, and the King with them. The words in which Julius Cæsar used to describe his own achievements, altered thus, would even more suitably have applied to Buonaparte:—"Imperator venit, visus est, vicit."

The news of his return fell like a thunderclap on the ears of Europe, and diplomatists and generals became as busy as ants when their home has been disturbed, devising means to crush once and forever the bold usurper. But, if they were active for his downfall, he was untiring in his efforts to strengthen his position and to make preparations for the impending onslaught; for he knew how terrible would be its force, and that nothing but consummate generalship, aided by extraordinary fortune, could avail him; the Allies were resolute and agreed about hurling him from power. So, during those memorable Hundred Days, his energy never flagged, and he performed prodigies of work, inquiring into everything himself—no detail was too small for him.

Fortresses were strengthened, provisioned and armed; thousands upon thousands of France's already depleted population were drafted into the army and drilled incessantly from morn to night; the foundries were kept going night and day, casting artillery; muskets and arms of every sort were poured out by tens of thousands; stores of every description were collected, men and women were hard at work all day in turning out materials for uniforms, and others in making them up as fast as their nimble fingers could ply their needles; never before in so short a period was such a mass of war material got together. And the Emperor saw to everything.

To be sure, he was ably seconded by his generals and ministers, for the enthusiasm was prodigious. Everything was done to excite the passions of the French against the rest of Europe, and to inspire them with confidence in the Emperor's invincibility. But there were some few—the more thoughtful of them—who doubted.

Throughout this period of preparation, St. Just saw a good deal of the Emperor, who had now taken him back into his favor, and seemed to have no doubt of his fidelity. Napoleon's trust was amply justified, for, now that the ci-devant traitor was removed from his wife's influence, his former devotion to his old commander had returned in greater strength than ever, and no persuasion or temptation could have made him swerve from his allegiance. Not even Halima herself could have achieved it.

The Emperor had placed him on his staff, and raised him to the rank of a colonel, and had bestowed other marks of favor on him, pecuniary and otherwise. Also he took him into his confidence on private matters, sometimes discussing with him subjects strictly personal to himself.

The Emperor often employed him on private missions and enquiries that required tact and promptness and fidelity for their performance; and he had never reason to be dissatisfied with the result. All this was very flattering to St. Just, and nourished his devotion.

The wound he had received in Elba had healed by the time he landed in France, and, beyond an occasional twinge, his arm was as sound as ever.

One day, ten days after the return to Paris—that is to say, early in April—St. Just was summoned to a private audience with the Emperor.

"Colonel," began Napoleon, the moment St. Just entered, "I want someone I can trust implicitly to proceed to Vienna upon an errand that will make demands alike on his acuteness and his courage. I have the utmost confidence in you, and should prefer you as my messenger to any one else. I know you have had much experience of continental travel."

He looked at St. Just with a knowing smile that showed he knew a good deal more of his movements at Halima's instance than had been suspected by the other. St. Just reddened slightly, but remained silent, waiting for further information.

"If you agree to go," the Emperor went on—St. Just was about to say impetuously that, of course, he would go, when Napoleon held up his hand to check him. "Stay," he said, "wait till I have finished. The man who undertakes this mission for me will run great risk; if he fail, I may be powerless to assist him. They may shoot him as a spy; or they may imprison him. Now, are you prepared to take the risk? I issue no command, for I might be sending you to your death. It is not the Emperor who orders, but the friend who asks."

Now, in putting the matter in the way he did, the Emperor showed much astuteness. Had he merely issued his order for St. Just to go, the aide-de-camp would, of course, have started without demur; but he would have gone unwillingly, for he liked Paris; the bustle and activity going on, and in which he bore a prominent part, had great attractions for him, and he was anxiously looking forward to the moment when, their preparations completed, the French army should, with Napoleon at its head, meet its enemies face to face. Above all, he was a soldier: the smell of powder was a sweet savor in his nostrils, the boom of cannon and the roll of musketry were as music in his ears. By going to Vienna he might lose the chance of winning distinction on the field. But, beyond all this, he would be separated from the Emperor, his intimate intercourse with whom was now his chief delight and pride.

And Napoleon knew all this; he was a keen observer of those about him, and he had read St. Just aright. So he put his wishes on this occasion by way of favor; thus first anticipating and then smothering St. Just's dissatisfaction, making him swell with pride at the confidence reposed in him, and burn with enthusiasm to execute the Emperor's behests.

Not a moment did he hesitate when Napoleon finished speaking.

"Sire," was his prompt reply, "I deeply feel the honor your choice confers on me. Willingly, gladly I will execute your errand, and will do my utmost to bring it to a successful issue. The Emperor has but to command, and I will cheerfully obey. I trust I shall not fail in accomplishing the end you have in view; but, be assured, Sire, that, if I should, it will not be through lack of zeal. How soon am I to start, Sire, and what are my instructions?"

His face was glowing with enthusiasm, and the Emperor was moved at his devotion, and said a few gracious words by way of thanks; then he proceeded to explain to his staff officer what it was he had to do.

The Empress Marie Louise, with Napoleon's son, the titular King of Rome, was living at Vienna at her father's court; and Napoleon and his ministers thought it would be a good stroke of policy to get her into France. Once there, they hoped she could be influenced to intervene with the Allied Powers on his behalf. If she could gain her father to the Emperor's side, he might prevail on the other Powers not to interfere with the present regime in France, so long as the people themselves were satisfied. The Empress, if she could be got possession of, would be, it was hoped, a sort of hostage for the Powers' non-interference with her husband.

Already there was a plan on foot for the execution of this project, and St. Just had been selected by Napoleon as the agent.

He was to proceed with all speed to the Austrian Capital, and there—in person should it be possible, but, if not, by some trusty messenger—he was to convey to the Empress a letter from the Emperor, urging her to accompany the bearer to France.

It was hoped that, having regard to private communications which had already taken place, the Empress would yield to the Emperor's request and place herself under the protection of St. Just. She really had expressed her willingness to return to France, if it could be managed secretly. According to the plan that had been arranged, she was to leave the palace at night by a side door and join St. Just outside; then they were to make their way as rapidly as possible to Munich, where an escort would receive the Empress and accompany her to Paris. All this was detailed at length by the Emperor to St. Just, with the names of certain persons at Vienna who were in the plot, and could be trusted. His last words were,

"You will find the Empress at Schönbrunn. Twenty-four hours after meeting her you must be at Munich. Spare no expense. When once you get possession of the Empress, fly. Now go, my friend, and good luck go with you."

St. Just bent before the Emperor and kissed his hand; then he withdrew. An hour afterwards he had quitted Paris.

St. Just's MS. from which this story is compiled gives no details of his journey to Vienna, the reason probably being that, inasmuch as his errand resulted in a fiasco, he did not wish to be reminded of it; but, from hints dropped here and there, it may be gathered that he reached his destination and saw the Empress. It would seem that he was duped, and by Halima once more. Fouché, with whom she had close relations, and who, in his heart, believed that Napoleon's day was over, and was opposed to the project for the furtherance of which St. Just was acting, must have told her. In the result, a lady closely veiled met him at the palace, as arranged, and the programme was duly carried out. But, on their setting foot in France, he found that his companion was not the Empress, but his wife. His chagrin and rage may be imagined; they must have been unbounded, and, probably for the first time in her life, Halima failed to pacify him and mould him to her will. At any rate, he makes no mention of what took place on his return; not even of how the Emperor received him, when he learned how St. Just had been beguiled. Evidently the subject was too sore a one for St. Just to bear to dwell upon. Much of the foregoing statement is based on surmise; but it is pieced together from stray notes in the MS. and is, probably, a fair account of what occurred.

When St. Just returned to Paris, he fell into his old groove; warlike preparations were hurried on; conscripts were drilled more assiduously than ever; arrangements were made for the government of the country in Napoleon's absence; and at last the moment came when the Emperor set out to cast the die that was to make or mar his fortune once for all.

CHAPTER V.

The morning of the 16th of June, 1815, was just dawning; for, away in the Northeast, a faint shimmer in the sky, that grew momentarily stronger, was heralding the approach of day.

The French army was once more on foreign soil; it had advanced into that country which, from its having been the scene of so many well-contested fields, so many sanguinary conflicts, had acquired the name of Europe's Cockpit.

That portion of the army, to which St. Just was for the moment joined, was posted on a height hard by some windmills, which, in an emergency, would form a temporary shelter and give time for the troops to rally after a check.