CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 PROF. A. H. wRioar 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 3501.N3378M3 
 
 The marshal 
 
 3 1924 022 237 238 ,„. 
 
« Cornell University 
 B Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022237238 
 
THE MARSHAL 
 
' Come back again — Come back again," they called from the shore. 
 
THE MARSHAL 
 
 Mary Raymond (SHiPMArj Andrews 
 
 Authtr o/ 
 
 THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
 
 THE BETTER TREASURE, ETC. 
 
 illustrated by 
 Andre Castaigne 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS 
 
 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
 w 
 
Copyright 1912 
 The Bobbs-Merrill Company 
 
 PBKSa OF 
 
 BRAUNWORTH & CO. 
 
 BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS 
 
 BROOKLYN, N. Y. 
 
This book is dedicated to a man who has for 
 years had stories read to him. All the stories 
 of this writer. Whether his sort of stories or 
 not, whether in the mood for them or not, 
 he has listened with interest unfailing, and his 
 friendly criticisms, earnestly solicited, have 
 many times been met with surprise, indigna- 
 tion, and reflections on the critic's literary 
 qualifications. It is fitting, therefore, that a 
 thank-offering of my first long story should be 
 dedicated to him — audience, critic and comrade 
 through all of them — 
 
 My Gentlest Reader 
 WILLIAM SHANKLAND ANDREWS 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 I 
 
 A Prophecy 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 II 
 
 The Stranger . 
 
 
 
 
 . 14 
 
 III 
 
 Without Fear . 
 
 
 
 
 23 
 
 IV 
 
 Coming to His Own . 
 
 
 
 
 . 34 
 
 V 
 
 His Star . 
 
 
 
 
 41 
 
 VI 
 
 A Game of Cards 
 
 
 
 
 . 51 
 
 vri 
 
 Work and Hope 
 
 
 
 
 61 
 
 VIII 
 
 The Retreat From Moscow 
 
 
 
 . 68 
 
 IX 
 
 The Crown of Friendship 
 
 
 
 80 
 
 X 
 
 For Always 
 
 
 
 91 
 
 XI 
 
 The Castle Children 
 
 
 
 
 101 
 
 XII 
 
 The Strange Boy 
 
 
 
 
 112 
 
 XIII 
 
 The Promise 
 
 
 
 
 129 
 
 XIV 
 
 With All My Soul . 
 
 
 
 
 137 
 
 XV 
 
 I Said It, and I Will 
 
 
 
 
 144 
 
 XVI 
 
 The Mother of a Prince 
 
 
 
 
 154 
 
 XVII 
 
 The Ruse . 
 
 
 
 
 163 
 
 XVIII 
 
 After Five Years , . 
 
 
 
 
 177 
 
 XIX 
 
 Good News 
 
 
 
 
 19f 
 
 XX 
 
 The Stone Staircase 
 
 
 
 
 206 
 
 XXI 
 
 A Loaf of Bread 
 
 
 
 
 215 
 
 XXII 
 
 The Peasant Guide . 
 
 
 
 
 229 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Rest and Safety . :, 
 
 [. 
 
 
 
 235 
 
 XXIV 
 
 The Sacrifice . . :. 
 
 
 
 
 245 
 
 XXV 
 
 A Social Crisis . 
 
 
 
 
 253 
 
CONTENTS— Co»/;«»^^ 
 
 CHAPTER PASB 
 
 XXVI Captain of the Troop . . . .261 
 
 XXVII Hero Worship 276 
 
 XXVIII A Lesson in French 283 
 
 XXIX The Story Again 293 
 
 XXX The Prince Comes 301 
 
 XXXI Brothers 314 
 
 XXXII How Lucy Told 328 
 
 XXXIII The Finest Things 337 
 
 XXXIV Once More at Home 348 
 
 XXXV Summoned 359 
 
 XXXVI The Prince's Bright Shadow . . .370 
 
 XXXVII The Third Wish 376 
 
 XXXVIli The Night Before . . . . .392 
 
 XXXIX The Bugle-Call 405 
 
 XL The Accolade at Last . . . .417 
 
YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY 
 
 On the wall of the large hall of a house in Virginia 
 hang two portraits side by side. Both are of young 
 men, both in uniform ; one in the dark blue coat and 
 the white and red of an infantry officer of the French 
 Empire, the other in that scarlet shirt which came to 
 be a flag, almost as much as a dress, to the heroic band 
 of insurgents who struggled for free Italy against the 
 Austrians. The master of the Virginia house, coming 
 into it to-day, meets always those two pairs of eyes — 
 the eyes of his grandfather the Marquis and of a 
 French peasant to whom his grandfather's youth was 
 linked by ties of more than brotherhood. 
 
 It is the chronicle of the latter which is Here written. 
 Yet woven into it, as in truth it happened, is so much 
 of the life of the Marquis Zappi that for any one read- 
 ing that chronicle it will be easy to surmise how it hap- 
 pened that the grandson of Pietro rules now in Carni- 
 fax, the Virginian house where Pietro's friend found 
 asylum after his imprisonment under the Austrians. It 
 will be easy to surmise how the foreign names of this 
 story are the names shouted one to another to-day by 
 American girls and boys under the live-oaks of that 
 Virginia lawn; how a Francois and an Alixe and a 
 Pietro and a Gaspard play together in the new world 
 as others of their names played, a century back, in an 
 older country. 
 
 In the drawer of an old desk in the Carnifax library 
 is a package of yellowed letters. The children — ^Alixe 
 
YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY 
 
 and Frangois and Gaspard and Pietro— are allowed to 
 touch them sometimes and are told how precious they 
 are, and a little of the reason why. They are shown the 
 signatures on the letters of a Prince who became Em- 
 peror of France, of an officer of the first Napoleon, of 
 their own great-grandfather, the last Italian Marquis 
 Zappi, the splendid, big old man whose gentleness and 
 whose lameness the oldest of them can just remember 
 — for Pietro never quite got well from that fall under 
 his horse which kept him from fighting for Prince 
 Louis at Boulogne. Then, as the most wonderful thing, 
 the father shows them, last of all, letters in the writing, 
 with the big black signature, of one whom they call 
 "the Marshal," and one youngster tells to another — for 
 they all know it — some bit of his story. How he 
 climbed the church steeple; how he saved the Prince 
 in the ruins ; how he escaped from the prison castle ; 
 the father tries to point out to them how courageous 
 and unselfish a career it was and in what a manner it 
 was crowned with all his heart's desire, and entire hap- 
 piness. But the children do not listen very well to that, 
 for they are young and want facts. Yet, as they tumble 
 out into the hall, they are likely to stop a moment be- 
 fore the portraits, considering. Frangois stares hard at 
 the picture in the uniform of the Empire, of the young 
 man with large brown eyes, whose fire the artist has 
 caught not badly. 
 
 "He was very btave and very good/' young Frangois 
 says proudly, as a child says words many times re- 
 peated to him. "I have his name. I shall try to be like 
 him." 
 
 It is perhaps enough of success for a life that a child 
 coming after should find in it a standard to measure his 
 own. Yet, those who knew the first Francois believed 
 that no other could be like him. M. R. S. A. 
 
THE MARSHAL 
 
THE MARSHAL 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A PROPHECY 
 
 IT was Franqois who had his way. Pierre clam- 
 ored for the story of the old witch and the 
 horses ; Marie begged to hear about the white ducks 
 and the princess; Tomas, at the top of his lungs, 
 demanded the episode of the man who fell off the 
 church steeple; each child wished a particular tale. 
 Half a dozen high, little French voices floated shrilly 
 out into the garden, on a sunshiny morning of 1820 
 from the great entry of an old farm-house in the 
 valley under the Jura Mountains. The grandmother, 
 sitting white-capped in the center of the hubbub, 
 heard one more willingly than the others, for not 
 only was Francois her best loved, but also the story, 
 he asked for was the story she liked to tell. 
 
 In the large kitchen beyond the open door the 
 sun lay in patches on the bare scrubbed floor, and 
 the mother moved swiftly, getting dinner ready 
 
2 THE MARSHAL 
 
 against twelve o'clock, when the father should come 
 in from the fields; it was the grand-mere' s hour to 
 amuse the children. And to-day they were all 
 pleading at once for a story, clapping hands, jump- 
 ing up and down as if life depended on the choice. 
 Suddenly, in the excess of enthusiasm, Tomas and 
 Frangois and Pierre were in a heap, sprawling at 
 her feet on the earth floor of the entry. 
 
 "Stop, stop," said the grandmother. "Good 
 children do not go so fast," and she carefully sorted 
 out the heap. "You, Francois, you are too quick — 
 you will finish by hurting yourself. Stand here 
 quiet, near me, and listen well," and, her arm about 
 him, she drew the boy close. 
 
 "You will tell my tale, grand-mere — ^the tale of 
 'Napoleon Comes'?" he asked eagerly, and the 
 grandmother smiled ; it was what she wished to tell. 
 
 And now, with the faces of the children turned 
 toward her, she pushed the big horn- framed glasses 
 up on her brow, buried her knitting needles deep in 
 scarlet wool, and folding her work carefully, laid 
 it in the work-box. All five watched the ceremony, 
 the methodical habit of a lifetime, and little Marie 
 gave a trembling sigh as it ended. Only that sound 
 broke the stillness, and in a moment the grand- 
 mother's voice began. 
 
A PROPHECY 3 
 
 "Francois, if you pinch your brother you are not 
 a good child, and can not listen to the story," she 
 admonished. "Be quiet, then, and you shall hear 
 how the Emperor came to this house, and sat in the 
 great room there — Napoleon!" 
 
 The five pairs of eyes followed hers as she 
 glanced toward the door. "Yes, at that table he 
 sat," the gentle voice went on, "with his great offi- 
 cers about him, with their uniforms and bright 
 facings and gold buttons, and their swords clanking 
 as they walked, and their three-cornered hats, wav- 
 ing with plumes, on their heads. But tiens — I must 
 go back — I must tell it rightly, the story of Na- 
 poleon." At the name the grandmother's head 
 seemed to lift, and dignity was in her manner. The 
 boy against her ami, his brown eyes, of uncommon 
 size and intensity, fastened on hers, thrilled. 
 
 "Yes, grand-m^re, from the beginning," he said 
 earnestly. 
 
 Smiling again, the grandmother began. "You 
 must know, my children, that it was on a day in the 
 month of May, in the year 1813, that he came. You, 
 Lucie, and you, Pierre, and Marie were not born, 
 only Francois and Tomas. Franqois was the older 
 ■ — not quite three years old. The mother had gone 
 to care for your Aunt Lucie, who was ill, and I kept 
 
4 THE MARSHAL 
 
 the house for your father. It was the year of the 
 great conscription, when the Emperor took all the 
 men to fight, not only the strong ones, but the boys, 
 and the old and infirm, if they might but drag them- 
 selves at the tail of a regiment. So the few men who 
 were not under the flag were sorely needed by their 
 families, for it was necessary, if the women and 
 children were not to starve, that some should stay 
 to work in the fields. Your father was of the few 
 who had escaped in our village of Vieques. 
 
 "One morning a man appeared in the village and 
 said that Napoleon would pass this way within a 
 few hours. No one quite believed, yet there was 
 excitement, and the people stood about chattering, 
 restless, when suddenly — I can see it as if it were 
 yesterday — a half dozen horsemen clattered from 
 the turn of the road up there and galloped down the 
 street and on beyond. The crowd stared. Then 
 every one talked at once; there was a great confu- 
 sion. But at last a good old man, well known to 
 us all, raised his hand for silence, and as we listened 
 he told us that probably it was not the great army 
 which would pass through Vieques, but only Na- 
 poleon and his staff. We were not on the road 
 which led to Germany, and the great army was 
 hurrying there. It was probable that the Emperor 
 
A PROPHECY 5 
 
 turned from his road to take the lists of men and of 
 resources in the village." 
 
 There was a stir against the grandmother's arm. 
 "Comment f" she asked. 
 
 "Please, grand-mere, don't tell what the old man 
 said," Frangois spoke. "It is so long before you 
 come to Napoleon." The child's manner was im- 
 petuous, but very winning. The old woman felt the 
 charm of it. 
 
 "You are always eager, Frangois," she said. 
 "Very well, then. Two young men were placed 
 down the road to warn us, so that the men of the 
 place might hide on the mountain to escape being 
 taken for soldiers. All that day nothing happened, 
 but the next morning toward half past ten, as I 
 prepared the dinner, there was a sudden noise in 
 the street, and your father came in. 
 
 " 'My mother,' he said, 'Napoleon comes.' 
 
 "Outside I heard the neighbors calling the same 
 two words — 'Napoleon comes' — one called it to an- 
 other. If the trumpet of the angel had sounded the 
 end of the world, they could not have had more 
 fear. Then your father kissed me, and kneeled and 
 held you, Frangois, and Tomas, in his arms, and I 
 saw tears, but he was brave — but yes. 'Courage, 
 
6 THE MARSHAL 
 
 little mother,' he said, 'for me and for the babies. 
 Courage.' 
 
 "And at that your father, who was my little lad 
 once, you know, my dears, had gone, and I stood 
 with an ache where my heart should have been, and 
 for a moment I was stupid and could not think. 
 Francois held to my apron, and I lifted Tomas. 
 'What are you crying about, naughty grand-mere f 
 asked Tomas. So I dried the tears, and Frangois 
 began to say that he was sleepy. I undressed him 
 and the baby and put them to bed for their nap in 
 the little chamber which opens into the great one, 
 and as I left them asleep and came again into the 
 large room there, with its great oak table, I stood a 
 moment and thought of your dear father flying 
 through the woods, and of how I was left to take 
 care of his home and his children. And the thought 
 of a duty to be done brought calmness. 
 
 "As I stood so, like a blow there was a rush of 
 galloping horses in a shower of noise down the 
 street, and my heart stopped, for the horses drew 
 up at this house. So that I was still in the middle 
 of the floor when the door opened — " 
 
 Francois' hand was laid against her cheek. "The 
 door into the great entry — ^that door there?" he de- 
 manded in a whisper. 
 
A PROPHECY 7 
 
 "But yes, mon p'tit — that door." 
 
 Four pairs of round eyes followed Frangois' gaze 
 that turned to the panels of heavy oak. 
 
 "It opened, that door there, and against the light 
 I saw men crowding in the entry. They wore uni- 
 forms of bright colors, and swords hung at their 
 sides, and on their heads were hats with trimmings 
 of gold. Then I saw — Napoleon. I knew him at 
 once, though I had never seen his face, though his 
 figure was perhaps the smallest. One knows the 
 lion from the common beasts. I stood quietly, re- 
 membering only that I must guard my son's chil- 
 dren, and he spoke. With a step toward me he 
 spoke in a kind voice, half smiling. 
 
 " 'Madame,' he said, 'will you let us use this room 
 and this table for an hour? You shall not be dis- 
 turbed in your work.' " 
 
 The grandmother stopped and lifted her hand, 
 and her head was up as if listening. "Tiens! I 
 hear his voice now!" she whispered, and the chil- 
 dren started, as if expecting to catch a note of the 
 tones that had sounded here — ^the tones that had 
 carried across the world. The story went on. 
 
 "I made my courtesy to these great gentlemen as 
 I had been taught, and I found myself saying quite 
 easily to his majesty the Emperor, as easily as if I 
 
8 THE MARSHAL 
 
 talked to Monsieur le Cure, to whom I was accus- 
 tomed, that he was welcome; that I would serve 
 him gladly if he wished to command me. And then 
 I left them. There was that about the great 
 Emperor which made one happy to be of use to him. 
 I did not understand it, but I felt it, as I had heard 
 the men talk about it who had seen him. My son 
 was flying from him, he was draining the land of 
 our men, of our comfort and happiness, and yet 
 here I was, willing and glad to do the least or the 
 greatest thing for him. He was more than a man. 
 Napoleon. As I left the room, at the door I saw a 
 big soldier with an enormous fur shako on his head 
 and a saber in his hand, who mounted guard, and 
 there were at each door and at each window soldiers 
 on guard — think of that, my children — our peaceful 
 house surrounded with grand soldiers. I could not 
 help being a little proud as I saw it. And before 
 the entry here a crowd of huge horses stamped and 
 snorted, so full of spirit that the grooms could 
 scarcely hold them. I went quietly into the kitchen 
 and began, as in the ordinary way, to get dinner, 
 but I was so dazed with what was happening that I 
 was not entirely capable. I could not seem to make 
 the soup as usual. When, suddenly, I heard a child 
 cry, and with no thought then but of my babies, I 
 
A PROPHECY 9 
 
 flew to the door of the great room and stood look- 
 ing, for I could not pass the sentinel. 
 
 "Among the officers in their uniforms there lay 
 on the floor little Franqois in his night-dress, and 
 all the officers looked at him and laughed — a great 
 shout of laughing which drowned the sound of my 
 coming. I knew later what had happened, for the 
 mayor of the village was there with his lists, and he 
 told me. The child, sleeping in the farther room, 
 had waked at the voices and had climbed down from 
 his crib and toddled out to see. The glitter of the 
 uniforms must have pleased him, and as they all 
 bent over the papers on the table he had pulled at 
 the sword of one whom I afterward knew to be 
 the great Marshal Ney. He wore a dark coat all 
 heavy with gold lace, my children, and white panta- 
 loons and high shining black boots, and across his 
 breast a scarlet ribbon. He sat next the Emperor. 
 The marshal, turning sharply at the tug, knocked 
 the little one over. It was then Franqois cried out, 
 and I ran to him. But when I reached the door a 
 young general, whose name I never knew, had set 
 the child on his feet, and the others, some standing 
 about him, some sitting in their chairs, which they 
 pushed back to see better, some leaning across the 
 table, all stared at him. Without doubt it was a 
 
lo THE MARSHAL 
 
 sight which they had not seen lately, a baby in its 
 night-dress, and without doubt it seemed homelike 
 to some. However that may be, they were laughing 
 like schoolboys, and it was Napoleon himself who 
 spoke as I peered under the sentinel's arm. He 
 shook his finger at his officer. 
 
 " 'Marshal, Marshal,' he cried, 'are you not too 
 quick to overthrow so young a soldier, so full of 
 love for arms?' 
 
 "And he put out his hand and pinched the little 
 one's ear, which I have heard was a sign of good 
 humor from the Emperor. The marshal laughed 
 also, and the young general who had set the child 
 on his feet spoke quickly. 
 
 " 'Your Majesty,' he said, and he patted the little 
 head as he said it, 'Monsieur le Marechdl owes a 
 reparation to this soldier of the empire. Will not 
 your Majesty order him to draw the sword which 
 is contested between them and confer knighthood 
 with it? It is an ancient custom, the accolade, and 
 would settle the difference between these gentlemen 
 very pleasantly.' 
 
 "And the officers laughed again noisily as the 
 general spoke of the great marshal and the little 
 white-gowned baby as 'these gentlemen'. But Na- 
 poleon drew his eyebrows together — yet he smiled. 
 
A PROPHECY II 
 
 " 'Not the marshal,' he said, 'but I will do it. As 
 you say. General, the accolade is an old right of 
 kings, unused for centuries, but none the less a 
 right — held in abeyance. I am the monarch of 
 France' — and his voice was like the flash of a blade 
 — 'I am the monarch of France,' he said, 'and I may 
 give nobility where I choose. For his courage I 
 shall knight this young Frenchman ; who knows but 
 his life may some time mean much to me or my 
 house? There are queer twists in the rope of his- 
 tory — a throne might depend on this lad's spirit as 
 well as on another's.' The Emperor seemed to 
 joke, for he laughed a little, yet there was a sound 
 in his voice as if some part was serious. He turned 
 sharply to the mayor. 'What is the child's name ?' 
 
 "The mayor was our friend and knew the babies. 
 'Frangois Beaupre, Sire,' he answered tremblingly. 
 
 "The Emperor gave a short nod to the general, 
 who still kept his hand on the dark little head. 
 'Make him kneel,' he said. 'Marshal, your sword.' 
 
 "The blade clattered out of the sheath in front 
 of the baby's eyes, and he blinked as he looked up, 
 but did not draw away an inch, and as the young 
 general pressed him to his fat knees he put his hands 
 together and shut his eyes, for he thought he was 
 to pray to the good God. So the child knelt before 
 
12 THE MARSHAL 
 
 the Emperor, thinking of his prayers. It was still 
 for a moment, and all the ofificers stood up silent, 
 and then the Emperor took the marshal's sword and 
 struck the baby's shoulder a light blow with the flat 
 of it. 
 
 " 'Rise Chevalier Franqois Beaupre,' he said 
 clearly, and in the pause he added, with a look in 
 his eyes as if one gazed forward : 'Some day, per- 
 haps, a Marshal of France under another Bona- 
 parte.' " 
 
 The grandmother's voice stopped, and the garden 
 and the entry that had been full of the jingle of 
 harness and the clatter of steel, the stir and color of 
 soldiery, was suddenly hushed and empty. The 
 ghosts of the great which had risen at the simple 
 magic of her memory dissolved into mists of past 
 years. But the glory and the awe of the name of 
 the Emperor hung about them. The children hud- 
 dled, their eyes devouring her, their faces close, 
 listening yet. A little girl's voice spoke. 
 
 "And, grand-mere, it was — " 
 
 "It was Francois," she said, and laid her hand 
 on his shoulder. "The sword of the Emperor 
 touched him here — I saw it." The child's frame 
 quivered as if he felt again that blow of the acco- 
 lade. 
 
'Some day, perhaps, a Marshal of France." 
 
A PROPHECY 13 
 
 Then Tomas, always unimpressed, began to sing 
 jecringly : 
 
 "Francois Beaupre, 
 Nous devous Tadmirer— ' 
 Notre grand chevalier, 
 Frangois Beaupre — " 
 
 And the spell was broken. The children scat- 
 tered, shouting, out into the sunshine of the garden. 
 But Franqois stood at his grandmother's side, not 
 hearing or seeing them ; staring at the heavy panels 
 of the oak door as if he beheld the figures of Na- 
 poleon and his generals pass that way again, and in 
 his child eyes smoldered the inner light of a seer of 
 visions. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE STRANGER 
 
 AT the end ofthe long street of Vieques, next 
 XjLthe church, stood the house of Franqois Beau- 
 pre, the father of little Francois and Tomas and 
 the rest. The villagers called him "Le Frangois" 
 and his wife "La Claire"; this showed them of a 
 certain importance, for one spoke as if there were 
 no others. The house was the largest in the village, 
 and its . great earth-floored entry, leading at the 
 right into the living-rooms, at the left into the 
 stable, was twenty feet square. There, on sunshiny 
 spring days, the grandmother would sit on the long 
 •bench against the wall, always with her knitting, 
 always with the children about her, and the cows 
 would file past and into the wide doorway at the 
 left, switching their tails, with mild big eyes gazing 
 gently at the group. In front was the flower gar- 
 den, and little Lucie's head was not so tall as the 
 patch of red peonies whose great blossoms the 
 breeze tossed in one corner of it. 
 
 14 
 
THE STRANGER 15 
 
 A beautiful garden it was, the finest in the vil- 
 lage, yet this was not the pride of "La Claire", the 
 wife of "Le Franqois". She had two vanities, the 
 neighbors said: her tiny feet and her garden, but 
 not this garden of flowers. Outside of the village, 
 half a mile away, on the road to the old chateau, 
 were the fields where, laid out in trim rows, flour- 
 ished all the vegetables of all the villagers. The 
 little houses sat in the long street, the old voie 
 Romaine, the Roman road built before the Christian 
 era and still kept up. The houses were set too 
 closely to allow space for the great beds of cab- 
 bages, beans, peas, turnips, parsley, endive, chic- 
 ory, carrots. So the cottages nestled elbow to elbow 
 in the street, and the gardens in the fields outside — 
 one might see them by looking — stretched even 
 long fingers through the valley almost to the slope 
 that led to the ruined castle. 
 
 Francois, the lad, liked to be sent there with his 
 mother's big basket to bring back vegetables for the 
 family meal. It was quiet in the long sunshiny 
 rows of growing things, and the earthy smell was 
 pleasant, and a boy who had much to think about 
 could think well as he broke of? stems of chard or 
 dug into the clean damp brown earth for lettuce — 
 "la salade". Moreover, he would ask sometimes : 
 
1 6 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "Must I hurry to-day, mother? Might I go on 
 to the chateau for a little while?" 
 
 And often La Claire would smile at the boy and 
 answer: "But yes, my Fran9ois, you may go; 
 there is no hurry." 
 
 And then came hours to be remembered. Fran- 
 cois remembered them many years after. He would 
 set the basket carefully in a safe spot at the very 
 end of the row of white-grown lettuce heads, and 
 then he would cross the field, brushing through the 
 millions of scarlet poppies, higher than the blades 
 of wheat, and climb up the steep hillside and scram- 
 ble over the fence, and be in the old castle. It was 
 a good road, because the people of Vieques used it 
 often for going to and from the pastures at the foot 
 of the mountain, with the cows. At the end was a 
 gate which closed the way to wagons or cattle; 
 however, a person on foot might open it and go be- 
 yond. Inside were the ruins. 
 
 On an afternoon in July in the year of 1820, 
 Francois, being ten years old and a dreamer, came 
 alone through the gate and sat down with his short 
 legs dangling over an ancient wall, fifteen feet sheer 
 down. He sat there, quite comfortable and secure, 
 and kicked his heels, and thought of his brilliant 
 future, and also of the story of the great dog and 
 
THE STRANGER 17 
 
 the treasure. This ruin, the ancient chateau of 
 Vieques, had a legend. Each child of the village 
 knew it before he could remember how — it had been 
 so with all of them always — ^grandfathers had heard 
 it from grandfathers for hundreds of years. The 
 tradition ran that ages back, in the time of Caesar, 
 fifty years after Christ, a Roman governor in this 
 Gallic province had built a formidable castle on this 
 hill outside the village — "Vicus", the Romans called 
 it simply, "the village" — and "Vicus", changed to 
 "Vieques", it has stayed. The castle had great 
 granaries to hold the grain which the governor 
 tortured from the peasants and sent to Rome to sell. 
 This little "vicus" was on the main road to Rome, 
 which made it convenient for the governor. So he 
 grew rich by oppression, and the gold wrung from 
 the people he piled in cellars deep in his castle. 
 When it came to be a great amount he sent far to 
 the north and got a huge dog, and this dog he 
 trained to a terrible fierceness, so that any one 
 coming near him in the long underground corridors 
 where he guarded the treasure was sure to be torn 
 in pieces, except always the governor. The gov- 
 ernor knew well that the people hated him, even 
 those closest to him, and this savage beast was his 
 only friend, and his reliance. 
 
i8 THE MARSHAL 
 
 For years things went on in this way, the gov- 
 ernor grinding the peasants, and the giant dog 
 guarding him and his treasure, till at last there came 
 a thunderbolt — the governor was sent for to come to 
 Rome to give an account of the riches which he had 
 kept from the emperor. He had to go, but he left 
 the dog in charge, and the night after he was gone 
 the peasantry gathered and set fire to the chateau and 
 burned it to the ground, and the dog and the treas- 
 ure were buried in it, and there they are to this day. 
 The people of Vieques believe that if a man will go 
 to dig for that treasure and will stay till midnight, 
 that at twelve exactly a colossal dog will rise from 
 the ruined stones and come, breathing flames ; in his 
 mouth will be the key of the treasure-vault, and 
 back of him will stand the ghost of the Roman 
 governor wrapped in white, his face covered. And 
 if the man will be bold enough to take the key from 
 the flaming mouth, then dog and governor will 
 vanish in a clap of thunder, and in front of the 
 daring one will rise the door of the treasure-vault, 
 and he may turn the key and go in and help himself. 
 The people of Vieques believe this because the 
 grandfathers have known from their grandfathers 
 how there were men in old times braver than com- 
 mon who stayed till midnight in the ruins and saw 
 
THE STRANGER 19 
 
 the dog and the ghost — but none was brave enough 
 ever to take the key from the dog's mouth. 
 
 The child Francois, his heels hanging over the 
 drop of the ancient wall, the shadows of a large 
 chestnut tree playing back and forth across his little 
 figure and across the broken piles of grass-grown 
 stones which had been the castle granaries, revolved 
 this tale in his mind. The picture of the huge dog 
 breathing fire and that ghostly vision of the pitiless 
 governor, white, face-covered, dimly outlined in the 
 shadows, gave the boy a thrill of agreeable horror, 
 but not a thrill of fear. Fear had been, those who 
 knew him said, left out of this lad. 
 
 "He does not think of himself," said the grand- 
 mother proudly, "so he can not fear for himself." 
 
 Francois considered, and, feeling no fear in his 
 soul, decided that he was the man destined to take 
 the key out of the dog's mouth and get the treasure, 
 which he would at once transfer intact to his 
 mother. He had no need for treasure; there were 
 things more important. It was for him to become 
 a Marshal of France. Napoleon had said so; it 
 must be so ; but he should like, on the way to this 
 goal, to face the dog and take the key and give his 
 mother the treasure. He knew she would like it, 
 for he had heard her say to his father only yester- 
 
20 THE MARSHAL 
 
 day, "Ah, Francois, if we had a little more silver 
 we could do that !" It would be pleasant to arrange 
 that for his mother, and shortly after to become a 
 Marshal of France. 
 
 In the gaiety of the thought, and feeling both 
 ambitions all but accomplished by his decision, he 
 lifted himself on the palms of his hands and kicked 
 out lightly over the abyss. As he kicked there was 
 a sudden strong grip on his shoulder; he was jerked 
 backward and rolled on the grass. 
 
 "Are you tired of life at this age then?" a strident 
 voice demanded, and Frangois lay on his back and 
 regarded, wondering, at ease, the bronzed lined face 
 of a big man standing over him. The two stared, 
 and then: "You believe yourself to be an eagle, 
 and you are on the point of flying? Is that it?" 
 The abrupt virile voice threw the questions at him, 
 and FranQois smiled sunnily. He knew this to be 
 sarcasm, though he did not know that name for it, 
 and from the sweet soundness of his soul the arrow 
 of sarcasm slid off always as a glancing brightness 
 and left no poison. Francois smiled ; then laughed 
 with assurance of the other's friendliness up into 
 the strange man's face. He got to his feet and 
 stood. 
 
 "No, M'sieur," he said politely. "I did not think 
 
THE STRANGER 21 
 
 myself an eagle. I was only pleased at thinking 
 what I am going to be some day. Something much 
 better than an eagle," and he nodded with a confi- 
 dence in the stranger's sympathy. 
 
 "Ah!" The deep strong voice seemed to be 
 fired like a cannon-shot from the ambush of the 
 bristling mustache. "Great things are likely to 
 happen to you, it seems then, you small peasant. 
 Is it permitted to ask what magnificence it is that 
 you are to be ?" 
 
 "Certainly it is permitted, M'sieur," Franqois 
 answered in his courageous, courteous way. "I am 
 one day to be a Marshal of France, M'sieur." 
 
 The man, big, soldierly, aggressive, and the little 
 peasant boy, gentle, humbly-clad, unafraid, faced 
 each other a minute in silence, each interested sim- 
 ply in the other as in a new experience, each un- 
 conscious of himself and of the other's interest. 
 
 Then, "Ah !" the man said again. "It is a good 
 business which you have honored by your choice. 
 You are without doubt a close friend of his gracious 
 majesty. King Louis Eighteenth, our ruler ?" 
 
 "No, M'sieur," little Franqois hastened to set 
 him right. "I am not of that party, M'sieur. Me, 
 I am Bonapartist. I shall one day be a 'Marshal of 
 France under another Bonaparte.' " The lad's large 
 
22 THE MARSHAL 
 
 eyes lifted and his gaze floated away across the 
 afternoon landscape as he quoted in a lowered voice 
 the words which the Emperor had spoken over him. 
 
 The stranger watched him, astonished, and then 
 he laid his hand on the slim shoulder in its home- 
 spun blouse, and his grave voice was gentle. "My 
 child, be careful how you say words like those ; you 
 may get your father into trouble. It is a good be- 
 lief to keep in one's heart, and you and I may yet 
 shout 'Vive I'Empereur' for a Napoleon again. Yes, 
 and you may be Marshal — who knows? But keep 
 your tongue inside your teeth, boy; now is not the 
 time to talk. And do not hang over old walls when 
 the kicking fit is on you, else we shall have one great 
 man less in the world shortly. I must go on. Good 
 day, my friend, the Marshal." 
 
 And Frangois, as he had been taught, put his heels 
 together and made a low bow, and answered quite 
 simply, "Good day, M'sieur." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 WITHOUT FEAR 
 
 THE gilder was at work gilding the great ball 
 on top of the church steeple. Every twenty 
 years this had to be done, and it was an event in the 
 village. It was said that it cost much money ; there 
 were rumors that it cost as much as a thousand 
 francs. The gilder knew, of course, and the Cure 
 knew, but neither of them told. Moreover, it was 
 dangerous, and, like all dangers, fascinating. 
 
 The boys of Vieques stood in groups in the street 
 with their heads bent back, watching the tiny figure 
 of a man that crept up an invisible ladder far in the 
 air, lashed to the side of the steeple. Up and up it 
 went, like a fly, crawling on the fleche, and there 
 was a sinking feeling in each boy's stomach which 
 was delightful, to think how at any moment that 
 creeping black spot which was the gilder might fall 
 down, down, and be dashed to pieces. They wished 
 no ill to the gilder, who was a stranger not of their 
 village, nevertheless it would be a proud thing to 
 
 23 
 
24 THE MARSHAL 
 
 say that they had seen him killed. Life and suffer- 
 ing mean nothing to a boy, but an event is a pleas- 
 ure. Many of the girls turned away their heads 
 and cried out, "I can't look; I'm afraid he will be 
 killed." And at this the boys felt superior because 
 they were not afraid but rather hopeful of a catas- 
 trophe. There are points of difference between 
 boys and girls. 
 
 Franqois, however, did not think about the gilder 
 at all, yet his mind was on the gilding of the ball 
 every minute of the day. He wished earnestly, 
 passionately, to crawl up that ladder and be himself 
 that fly against the fleche. He felt that he could not 
 possibly go on living with self-respect, that feat 
 being unaccomplished. He was a good lad and an 
 obedient one normally, and he knew that his father 
 and mother would forbid such an attempt with 
 horror, but that counted for nothing against the 
 strength of his desire. It was a possession, an ob- 
 , session ; the thought drew him as martyrdom draws 
 a fanatic. Three days he watched the work, stand- 
 ing with the other boys, all their dark little heads 
 bent back as their eyes followed the invisible brush 
 which was noiselessly, slowly turning the dull sur- 
 face of the ball into a golden lamp hung on the blue 
 sky. The boys talked among themselves about it. 
 
WITHOUT FEAR 2% 
 
 "When I am a man I shall do such work," Achille 
 Dufour announced in a bold voice. '\Probably I 
 shall be up there some day where the gilder is now, 
 and all of you down below watching me." 
 
 And the others jeered frankly. "You — ^you who 
 fall over a fence — you indeed!" said his cousin 
 Henri scornfully. "But as for me, I would not be 
 afraid to climb up there to-day," and at that there 
 was a chorus of protest. 
 
 "Who was it, tell me, who was afraid to climb 
 the flagpole by the church? Who was that boy, 
 Henri Dufour?" demanded Pierrot Tremblay, and 
 the embryo Frenchmen joined in a sarcastic "Ah !" 
 and pointed grimy fingers at the mortified Henri. 
 
 "That's nothing," Henri threw back sulkily. 
 "And I was not the only one who was afraid. I 
 offered to climb the pole, and was afraid after— but 
 none of the others even offered. And it was no great 
 shame to me, for it is dangerous to climb that pole. 
 It is twenty feet to the cross-bars, and beyond that 
 it is fifty feet yet to the small cross-bars at the top 
 — it is very high in the air — seventy feet. Only 
 Frangois Beaupre of all the village has yet climbed 
 that flagpole, and all the world knows that Franqois 
 is different. His stomach is different; he has no 
 fear of things, inside him — Francois." 
 
26 THE MARSHAL 
 
 There was a murmur of assent, and the hero put 
 a friendly hand on the shoulder of the discredited 
 Dufour. 
 
 "It's nothing," he agreed. "It's only that I am 
 born different. I do not feel inside my stomach 
 that thing which you say is being afraid. I do not 
 know that feeling, so it is easy. It was not much 
 for me to climb the pole; it was just that I could 
 do it." 
 
 And the boys, seeing their honor saved, agreed 
 heartily. 
 
 "All, the same," Achille Dufour suggested un- 
 gratefully, "Frangois would not dare climb that 
 ladder to the ball. Dare you?" 
 
 The great brown eyes of Franqois turned about 
 the group; the boys waited eagerly for his answer. 
 If he dared it was almost as if they should all do it; 
 it was always this one who led into the dangerous 
 places ; always this one who went a bit further when 
 the others' courage failed; they explained it pleas- 
 antly by that fortunate lack in Franqois' inside 
 mechanism which produced in the others the dis- 
 comfort called fear, hindering bold deeds. 
 
 "He has no judgment, Francois; therefore he 
 fears nothing," they sometimes put the case. 
 
 But the fact remained that he was afraid of 
 
WITHOUT FEAR 27 
 
 nothing. The boys waited a minute, eyes and 
 mouths stretched, and at length came the decision. 
 
 "I dare," said Franqois. Then the dark heads 
 came together in an uneasy mass, and there was 
 whispering. 
 
 At the dinner-hour that day several mothers of 
 the village remarked that their small lads were rest- 
 less, not intent as usual on the black bread and the 
 soup of chopped vegetables and the green beans — 
 all anxious to finish and get away. Only the mother 
 of Frangois, however, reasoned from this that mis- 
 chief was brewing. When the slim, wiry, little 
 figure slipped from the table and out through the 
 open door, she rose and followed and stood in the 
 great entry watching him race across the field 
 toward the church. But at that moment the baby 
 cried and she turned back into the house, and when 
 she looked again the boy had disappeared. Yet it 
 was on her mind that something would happen, and 
 from time to time she left her work and went to the 
 doorway and shaded her eyes, looking for her little 
 lad. Meanwhile Frangois had veered but once in 
 his straight path — ^to turn to the Philpoteaux cot- 
 tage, where the gilder lodged while in Vieques. 
 
 "How soon will one be at work up there again ?" 
 he asked through the window of Auguste Phil- 
 
28 THE MARSHAL 
 
 poteaux sitting at his dinner, and the man answered 
 good-naturedly, enjoying the publicity which made 
 him the most interesting person of the village. 
 
 "It may be in half an hour, my boy. Not sooner." 
 And Franqois raced on. 
 
 By this time a boy here and a boy there had stolen 
 from their dinner-tables and were gathering in 
 groups down the street, but the elders paid no atten- 
 tion. Francois disappeared into the church; the 
 boys began to grow breathless. 
 
 "It will take some minutes for the stairs," one 
 said, and they waited. Two minutes, three, perhaps 
 five ; something rose out of the trap-door leading to 
 the platform from which the steeple sprang — a 
 figure, looking very small so far up above them. 
 Instantly it attached itself, like a crawling fly, to 
 the side of the steeple; it moved upward. Henri 
 Dufour, below in the street, jumped as a hand 
 gripped his arm. He looked up frightened at La 
 , Claire. 
 
 "Is that my Frangois?" she demanded sternly, 
 but the boy did not need to answer. 
 
 With that, by degrees people came from the cot- 
 tages as at some mysterious warning and stood 
 silent, afraid to breathe, watching the little figure 
 creeping up, up the dizzy narrowing peak of the 
 
WITHOUT FEAR 29 
 
 church steeple. A rider galloped down the road; 
 seeing the groups, he pulled in his bay horse and his 
 eyes followed the upward glance of the whole vil- 
 lage. In spite of the distance, one could tell that it 
 was a child's not a man's figure, glued against the 
 flkhe, almost, now, at the top. 
 
 "Who is it ?" he flung at the nearest knot of peas- 
 ants; his voice was abrupt and commanding.. 
 
 The men pulled off their caps, and one answered 
 respectfully: "It is little Franqois Beaupre, my 
 Seigneur; it is a child who has no fear; he is almost 
 at the top, but we dread it when he descends. It is 
 dangerous to descend. Yet the child is not afraid — 
 we hope he will come down, and in that case his 
 mother should most certainly give him the stick." 
 
 "Mon Dieu!" the man on horseback growled. "If 
 he looks down he is lost ; the lad is a born hero or a 
 born lunatic." 
 
 The crawling spot up there showed dark in the 
 sunlight against the new gilding of the ball. It 
 stopped; the blot was fixed for a second; another 
 second. From the crowd rose gasps, and excited 
 broken sentences. 
 
 "He has the vertigo ! He is lost !" 
 
 A man spoke that plainly, and Henri Dufour felt 
 Claire's fingers on his arm loosen as if Hfe had gone 
 
30 THE MARSHAL 
 
 out of them. A strange sound came from her lips, 
 but the boy did not stir his eyes from the church 
 steeple. In the stillness he heard a woman yards 
 away whisper as if to herself : 
 
 "He will fall now — at this moment." 
 
 And the dark blot clung against the gilding. 
 Then suddenly it moved, began to make a slow way 
 downward, and a long sigh, like a ripple on water, 
 ran through the ranks of people. No one spoke; 
 all the eyes watched the little figure slip down, down 
 the unseen ladder in the air. At last it was at the 
 bottom; it disappeared into the trap-door. Every 
 one began to talk volubly at once; a woman cried 
 for joy, then a child spoke in a high voice. 
 
 "See," she said shrilly, "the mother of Frangois 
 goes to meet him !" 
 
 La Claire was far down the street, gliding toward 
 that church door which was under the steeple. As 
 she reached it the little lad came out, his face 
 flushed, his eyes shining with excitement and tri- 
 umph. She took his hand silently, hardly looking at 
 him, and turned so, quietly, without a word of 
 either joy or reproof, her face impassive. She had 
 got her boy again from the dead, it seemed to 
 Claire, and those first moments were beyond words 
 or embraces. To touch his warm hand was enough. 
 
WITHOUT FEAR 31 
 
 The man on the bay horse, trotting slowly along, 
 saw the meeting. 
 
 "It is a woman out of the common, that one," he 
 spoke aloud. "She rules herself and the boy." And 
 the boy looked up as he came and smiled and tugged 
 at his cap with the hand which his mother did not 
 hold. 
 
 "Good morning, M'sieur," he said with friendli- 
 ness, and the rider stared. 
 
 "Sacre bleu!" he flung back in his strong sudden 
 voice. "It is my friend, the Marshal. Was it you, 
 then, glued up there? Yet another fashion to play 
 with death, eh ? Nom d'un chien! You have a star 
 of good luck — ^you are saved for something great, 
 it must be. Madame," he spoke to the mother, "you 
 should guard this adventurer. He tells me that his 
 life is of importance to his country, yet he risks it 
 with damnable freedom. I, caught him kicking over 
 a precipice, and here he is running his neck into 
 danger again. France will lack a marshal and you 
 to blame — ^yet he is hard to kill, I confess it." 
 
 "He is hard to guard, my Seigneur," La Claire 
 answered seriously. "I never know the next dan- 
 ger. He is more obedient than the others, yet it is 
 he who will make my hair gray. But he is good, 
 my Fran9ois," and her arm slipped around the boy. 
 
32 THE MARSHAL 
 
 She drew him close, as if only now realizing how 
 nearly she had lost him. "I believe it is simply 
 that fear is left out of him, as they say in the vil- 
 lage. He does not know how to be afraid, le petit." 
 
 The stranger turned a glance like a blow on the 
 little fellow. "Frangois," he demanded, "what 
 made you still so long at the top of the ladder just 
 now ? Were you afraid ?" 
 
 "No, M'sieur," the child answered. "I was not 
 afraid. I was looking at the chateau — the new 
 chateau. There is some one living in it now, 
 M'sieur. I thought as I looked that when I grew 
 big and an ofi&cer, I might go there and place my 
 soldiers about that chateau. I arranged how to 
 attack it very well. I also arranged how to defend 
 it. There should be infantry to take the little gates 
 while the cavalry kept the defenders, busy at the 
 great gate." 
 
 The bay horse, restive, whirled and plunged side- 
 wise; the rider sat close yet loose as he played the 
 reins, and in a moment had the beast facing again 
 toward the boy and the woman. His brows down, 
 he stared at the lad with his keen hard glance, but 
 he spoke to the mother. 
 
 "Madame," he said, "it is a soldier you have 
 there. I have not heard of another boy who lingers 
 
WITHOUT FEAR 33 
 
 at the top of church steeples to plan military opera- 
 tions. He has a love for the business — if he have 
 the genius also he may go far. He should be in- 
 structed." The two waited, attentive, a little aston- 
 ished to be noticed so long, and then the heavy brows 
 lifted and a smile came into the stern eyes, making 
 them astonishingly kind. "It is my poor house 
 which you have honored with your reflections, 
 M'sieur the Marshal," he flung at FranQois. "Come 
 and see me there in the chateau, and I will help you 
 arrange the attack against it. Good day." 
 ' There was a clatter of galloping hoofs; the bay 
 mare and her rider were far down the street. 
 ' "Who is it, my mother — the fierce gentleman?" 
 Franqois asked. 
 
 "You are fortunate to-day, Francois," Claire an- 
 swered him. "The good God has saved your life 
 from a very great foolishness, and also I think you 
 have made a friend. It is the new seigneur." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 COMING TO HIS OWN 
 
 POSSIBLY the greatest human quality is crea- 
 tiveness. It is an echo of the most character- 
 istic divine quality. Napoleon I. was essentially a 
 creator. He breathed into France the breath of a 
 life not before there; he took disorganized masses 
 and made of them invincible armies. He clipped 
 territories from countries and made of them king- 
 doms; beyond all, he made men. A hero is often 
 :irisis-born; Napoleon made the crises and shaped 
 iaeroes to fit them. Again and again he drew out 
 from the mass of common clay a lump in which his 
 master glance saw the leaven of possibility; he 
 breathed his own conquering, limitless spirit into it, 
 and ia a turn the automatom was a great general, 
 ready to do his work, bound to him for life by a 
 chain of devotion unbreakable, unreasoning, self- 
 sufBcient, a mystery of that astounding personality. 
 He made great ii\en and then in his lordly way he 
 set them in frames vWh suited his fastidious sense 
 
 34 
 
COMING TO HIS OWN 35 
 
 of fitness. Out of old France's domains he helped 
 himself to lands and castles and gave them with a 
 free hand to his marshals and his generals. 
 
 Six years ago, before Waterloo, he had given the 
 new chateau of Vieques and its lands to General the 
 Baron Gaspard Gourgaud, whom he had before 
 then fashioned into a very good pattern of a soldier 
 out of material left over from the old aristocracy. 
 Vieques was a village when "all Gaul was divided 
 into three provinces" of Rome; a village much the 
 same in 1820. It lay in the Valley Delesmontes — 
 "of the mountains" — a league from the little fity 
 Delesmontes, whose six thousand inhabitants consti- 
 tuted it the chief city of this valley of the Jura. 
 Over Vieques hung the mountain called Le Rose, 
 behind Le Rose loomed that greater mountain 
 called Le Raimeu; back of Le Raimeu rolled the 
 Jura range. The ancient road of the days of Julius 
 Cassar ran through Vieques, runs now, the main 
 road straight to Rome. It is kept up at present by 
 the government and one may see a man working 
 on it any day. A little river cuts across the hamlet 
 — ^the Cheulte; over it arches, steep, like a crooked 
 finger, unbelievably steep, the Roman bridge built 
 in those same times before France was, and used 
 now every hour of every day. Solid and age-defy- 
 
36 THE MARSHAL 
 
 ing and dignified, it goes about its business of hold- 
 ing the land together from one day to another as 
 it has done for two thousand years, as it may do, to 
 all appearances, for two thousand more. The old 
 road passes over the old bridge high into air and 
 makes an "elbow" as the villagers put it, at its foot, 
 swinging down stream at a right angle; a team of 
 horses rattling down the slope gathers such an im- 
 petus that often they bump into the barn of Pierre 
 Beaurame, built stolidly at the turn of the elbow, 
 before their driver can stop them. One wonders 
 why the grandfather of the grandfather of Pierre 
 built his barn at this place, biit there it stands, and 
 the horses must accustom themselves. 
 
 It is a quaint old village sitting under its moun- 
 tains, gay with its gardens and poppy fields, strung 
 on its little river and its old, old highway, tied to- 
 gether with its steep-arched bridge. The general 
 looked about him with approval when he rode down 
 of a morning from the "new" chateau on the hill. 
 The new chateau, the castle, is a thousand years old, 
 built before the Crusades, in the time of Charle- 
 magne, but yet-habitable. It stands not distant from 
 and on the same spur of Le Rose as the old Roman 
 chateau, that pile of tumbled ruins which Francois 
 loved. The castle is a massive square of gray stone 
 
COMING TO HIS OWN 37 
 
 with a pointed roof of red tile; four towers flank 
 it, two battlemented, two with spires red tiled. Win- 
 dows narrow and high and round, meurtrUres in 
 the towers, prick the stretch of masonry; the front 
 fagade is battlemented; a hedge of thorns fifteen 
 feet high reaches a delicate green arm about its 
 strength; half a mile back, a stone wall, battle- 
 mented, too, defends the place from attack on the 
 mountain side; the mountain rises sharply eight 
 hundred feet high behind. A park of beech trees 
 stands stately about the castle; above it one sees only 
 the red roofs, and the towers, and glimpses of gray 
 stone. It was like this in the year 1200; it is like 
 this to-day. 
 
 The Baron-General Gourgaud, taking possession 
 in this month of July, thought it lucky he had not 
 seen this domain of his before, else the vision would 
 have turned his heart from his duty. After a full 
 career almost in boyhood — for the Cross of the 
 Legion of Honor had come to him at twenty-four 
 — after service in the Spanish and Austrian cam- 
 paigns and diplomatic missions; after saving the 
 Emperor's life at Moscow; after Waterloo, Napo- 
 leon had chosen him as one of three officers to go 
 with him to St. Helena. The chateau and estate of 
 Vieques had been given to him by the Emperor 
 
38 THE MARSHAL 
 
 after that brave and lucky moment at Moscow 
 when, the first man to enter the Kremlin, he had 
 snatched the match from a mass of gunpowder 
 which would a moment later have blown up both 
 officers and Emperor. But, what with battles and 
 diplomacy, what with the years at St. Helena and 
 the years in England after, he had not till this sum- 
 mer of 1820 seen his property. Now, at once his 
 heart went out to it, and he loved it as naturally, 
 as whole-heartedly as if it had come to him through 
 a line of ancestors. The splendid, gray, old pile, 
 the wide green fields, the little village nestling to 
 its castle — all this seemed to the soldier of fortune 
 not a strange new luxury but like coming to his 
 own. 
 
 Ten years before he had married; four years 
 after that his wife had died, and the daughter she 
 left was now a girl of seven, a fairy type of girl, 
 airily and daintily made, quick-footed and quick- 
 witted; unexpected, too, like a fairy, and with a 
 brave and obstinate spirit which gratified her soldier 
 father every day. 
 
 "You are perfect in every way but one, Alixe," 
 he said, as he swung her high to kiss her. "You 
 are—" 
 
 "I know," the little girl interrupted, comrade-like. 
 
COMING TO HIS OWN 39 
 
 "I know the fault I have. I am not a boy. But I 
 do not wish to be a boy, father. I would then grow 
 to be a great fierce person with a mustache — like 
 you. Imagine me, father, with a mustache," and 
 the two laughed together. "Men are more like the 
 brutes, like the horses or tigers or lions — like you, 
 father. It is only women who are really people — 
 du monde." 
 
 "Indeed!" General Gourgaud received the state- 
 ment with his heavy brows in a tremendous frown, 
 and his eyes gleaming with pride in the defiance, 
 "Is it so, my daughter? I am lucky to have some 
 one who is really a person to save me from being 
 a brute altogether. But all the same, you grand 
 lady and person, you can not hand down the name 
 of Gourgaud. You will fly off some day to a brute 
 with a mustache, and leave your father alone in this 
 big chateau, is it not?" He knew her answer, but 
 he liked to hear it. 
 
 "I shall never marry anybody," Alixe announced. 
 "I can not ever love any one like my father." 
 
 In spite of the satisfaction which this speech gave 
 him, it was a sadness to the baron that no grand- 
 child of his name would live in this chateau which 
 he had so soon loved so much. He thought of it 
 many times, and the more keenly he felt the joy of 
 
40 THE MARSHAL 
 
 his life the more keenly he felt this missing thread 
 in its pattern. Yet it seemed a disloyalty to Alixe 
 when the memory of the little peasant boy with the 
 large dark eyes came to him as he told stories to 
 his daughter in the twilight. The story of the bat- 
 tle of Ratisbon it was to-night, and how he had gone 
 down into that "glorious ditch" and swarmed up 
 the ladder with the French troops under fire. 
 
 Alixe's blue eyes flashed and her hands clutched 
 his coat lapels — she loved the tale. Yet into the 
 mind of Gaspard Gourgaud shot the idea that if 
 he were telling it to a boy of his, he might dream 
 how that boy would march away some day and do 
 such a deed with a memory of his father in his 
 soul. Yet no boy could ever have been as dear to 
 him as this girl, gentle and spirited, elusive, caress- 
 ing, sweetest always in the world. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 HIS STAR 
 
 FATHER, father!" Alixe dashed into the li- 
 brary the morning after the tale of Ratisbon. 
 
 "I told you, Mademoiselle, that I was not to be 
 troubled. I am writing my book," the general thun- 
 dered at the little figure. 
 
 Alixe was not impressed. "Do not drop your 
 eyebrows in that way ;" she put a forefinger on each 
 bushy line. "It makes you so ugly, father." 
 
 He put his arm around her. "What is it you 
 wish? Be quick." 
 
 "Oh !" Alixe danced in excitement again. "There 
 is a queer, little, village boy — but a good boy, father. 
 He has brought you a bunch of lettuce — such white 
 fat lettuce! Will you see him? May I bring him 
 here? He is a very good boy." 
 
 "Alixe, you are impayahle," the general groaned. 
 "I am your plaything! Yes, bring the good little 
 boy — send for all the village — have in the servants 
 — that will help me with my writing." 
 
 41 
 
42 ■ THE MARSHAL 
 
 Alixe, Ignoring sarcasm, had flown. In a minute 
 she was back and led by the hand Frangois. 
 
 "Ah!" the general greeted him sternly. "My 
 friend, the Marshal! You have already begun the 
 attack on my chateau, it seems ?" 
 
 "No, my Seigneur," the boy answered gravely. 
 "Not yet. I bring you some salade as a present. It is 
 from my mother's garden. I chose the best." 
 
 "I thank you," said the general with seriousness. 
 "I am not sure if your mother will thank you equally. 
 It is a good present." 
 
 Francois was gratified. La Claire had this morn- 
 ing sent him to the gardens with a wide margin of 
 time, and the inspiration had come as he looked 
 down the gleaming row of white lettuce that he 
 would take a tribute and make the visit which the 
 seigneur had asked him to make. The seigneur 
 would be glad of the lettuce, for had not his father 
 said yesterday that it was the best ever grown, that 
 he would wager there was none such in the village, 
 no, not even in the garden of the chateau. He filled 
 his mother's basket so full that he staggered, and 
 climbed the slope and made his way past the ruins 
 to the left around the lift of Le Rose, across the 
 Pre du Sac, on to the new chateau to the great 
 paved courtyard one hundred feet square, past the 
 
HIS STAR 43 
 
 stables at the left and on to the door. There a big 
 man, dressed beautifully in violet, had refused to 
 let him in, had even refused to take his lettuce to 
 the seigneur, and the boy was about to go off grieved 
 when a wonderful little girl, also in beautiful clothes, 
 but less lovely than the violet ones, had appeared. 
 Like a fairy she looked, he thought, and like a fairy 
 she had changed everything, and now here he was 
 in the presence of the seigneur, accepting thanks, 
 looking about as much as he might and yet be po- 
 lite, at the unknown splendors of a room in the 
 chateau itself. 
 
 General Gourgaud brought down his fist on a 
 table so that it rattled and Franqois started — ^but not 
 Alixe. 
 
 "Sabre de hois!" he threw at the two children. 
 "You have ruined my morning between you. I 
 meant to finish those cursed chapters this morning. 
 But let them wait. Having the honor to receive a 
 visit from an officer of high rank, the least I can 
 do is to entertain him. What amusement do you pre- 
 fer, M'sieur the Marshal ? I am at your service." 
 
 It was natural to Frangois to believe every one 
 kindly; he accepted with simplicity, if with slight 
 surprise, the general's speech. 
 
 "Does the seigneur mean it ?" he asked. 
 
44 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "But yes," the general shot at him. 
 
 "If the seigneur means it," Franqois went on 
 promptly, "I know what I wish." 
 
 ^'Parbleu! you do?" General Gourgaud was sur- 
 prised in turn at this readiness. "What then?" 
 
 "The seigneur has fought battles under the great 
 Emperor himself?" the boy asked in an awed tone. 
 
 "Yes," came the abrupt answer again. 
 
 "Think!" whispered the French boy. "To have 
 fought under the Emperor !" And the old soldier's 
 heart thrilled suddenly. The child went on. "If the 
 seigneur would tell me a story of one fight- — of just 
 one !" 
 
 "Ratisbon, Ratisbon!" clamored Alixe, and she 
 scrambled over the arm of his chair to her father's 
 knee and her hand went around his neck. "Tell 
 about Ratisbon and the ditch and the ladders, fa- 
 ther. It's true," she nodded at Franqois encourag- 
 ingly. "It's really true; he was right there." And 
 she went on, addressing the general. "And when 
 that is done, tell about Austerlitz and the soldiers 
 drowning under the ice. And when that is done tell 
 about Wagram and — " 
 
 "Halt !" ordered the general. "I have not a week 
 to talk. But I will tell about Ratisbon if you wish." 
 He settled himself into his deep chair and drew the 
 
HIS STAR 45 
 
 little girl closer; a dark curl caught on the rough 
 cloth of his coat and lay across his square shoulder; 
 she held his thumb tightly with one hand. The boy 
 stood erect in front of them, his knitted peasant cap 
 in his hand, his luminous eyes not stirring from the 
 general's face ; outside the hot stillness lay over the 
 park and over the wide fields — where thousands of 
 poppies stretched scarlet heads higher than the 
 wheat; one heard the trampling of horses in the 
 paved courtyard of the castle where the red-roofed 
 stables stood, the distant voices of grooms; in the 
 dim room there was no sound. 
 
 "One lived in those days, my children," the ab- 
 rupt strong voice broke the quiet. "War is terri- 
 ble, but after all one lives — if one is not killed at 
 once. It happened so to many that day of Ratis- 
 bon; many were killed that day." The deep voice 
 stopped, then went on again. "The Austrians held 
 Ratisbon and the bridge across the Danube River. 
 The Emperor wished to take the town and that 
 bridge. Marshal Lannes was ordered to do it. You 
 see, my children, the walls were very old but filled 
 with Austrian artillery, and there was infantry on 
 the parapets. An old ditch lay under the walls, a 
 large ditch, dry, but twenty feet high and fifty feet 
 wide. All the bottom of it was a vegetable garden. 
 
46 THE MARSHAL 
 
 To take that town it was necessary to go down into 
 that ditch and climb up again to the walls, and all 
 the time one would be under fire from the Austrians 
 on the walls — do you understand that, children? 
 Very well. Twice the marshal asked for fifty volun- 
 teers to take the ladders and place them in the ditch. 
 Twice one hundred men sprang forward, and it was 
 necessary to choose the fifty. Twice they dashed 
 out, carrying the ladders, from behind the great 
 stone barn which had covered them, and each time 
 the detail was wiped out — fifty men wiped out. It 
 was like that, my children, the fight at Ratisbon." 
 The brown curl lay unstirred against the dark coat ; 
 the shining eyes of the boy held, as if fastened there, 
 to the face of the story-teller. Into the silence came 
 a choking sigh. 
 
 "The Emperor!" Frangois breathed — "the Em- 
 peror was there !" 
 
 Probably nothing, which had not to do with his 
 daughter, could have touched General Gourgaud as 
 did that tribute. That it was a tribute to his story 
 •meant much, but the worship of Napoleon which 
 burst out in the gasp went deeper. The followers 
 of the Corsican never asked for a reason why they 
 adored him; it was a feeling blinder and stronger 
 than love which he inspired, and it lasted in the 
 
HIS STAR 47 
 
 hearts of his soldiers to the latest moment of the 
 longest life. The veteran officer who felt this pos- 
 session of his own being saw it mirrored in the slim 
 lad who quivered before him, and he loved the lad 
 for it. 
 
 "Sapristi!" he growled. "The arm of the Little 
 Corporal reaches a long way. The child has not 
 even seen him, and voila, he loves him." 
 
 The child's face flushed. "But yes, my Seigneur," 
 Frangois spoke quickly. "But yes. I have seen the 
 Emperor." 
 
 "You have seen Napoleon?" The general was 
 surprised. "How is that?" 
 
 In a boyish fashion, in homely language of his 
 class, yet with that dramatic instinct which is char- 
 acteristically French, Frangois told his tale as his 
 grandmother had told it to him and to his brothers 
 and sisters — the tale which the children called "Na- 
 poleon Comes". The general listened with a sincere 
 interest. As simple in many ways as the child, 
 every least word of his demigod Napoleon was 
 charged for him with authority. He considered 
 deeply when the story was finished. 
 
 "My boy," he addressed the lad, "I do not know 
 the law — I am a soldier. Yet by my Idea you are 
 Chevalier, created so by the act of the most pgwer- 
 
48 THE MARSHAL 
 
 ful monarch who ever ruled France — ^by our Em- 
 peror Napoleon. Another monarch sits now on his 
 throne, yet he was in truth France's ruler when he 
 gave that blow on the shoulder which made you a 
 knight; he had the right of an emperor — therefore 
 you are that which he made you — ^the Chevalier 
 Frangois Beaupre. As for the rest" — his brows 
 drew into a bushy line and his eyes gleamed like 
 swords — "do not forget that he himself charged 
 you with a duty to his house; your fate and his 
 name are linked. The time may come when, as the 
 Emperor said, you may be a Marshal of France un- 
 der another Bonaparte. But that is a small thing 
 if the time comes when you may help another Bona- 
 parte to come to his right, to rule over France. It 
 is that of which you must think till the hour strikes, 
 and then it is that which you must give your life 
 for." 
 
 Little Frangois, the visionary, the hero wor- 
 shiper, trembled. He had no words to answer the 
 orders leveled at him in those rolling tones. "I 
 will do it, my Seigneur," he said, frightened yet in- 
 spired, lifted into a tremendous dizzying atmos- 
 phere. And with that a secret which he had told no 
 one, not even his mother, broke forth. "My Seig- 
 neur, a strange thing happens sometimes — I have 
 
HIS STAR 49 
 
 dreams — ^yet they are not dreams — in broad day- 
 light. I see things — I hear voices — which are not of 
 our village. Three times I saw a long road up a 
 mountain, and over the mountain was a large star. 
 I saw it three times, and once a voice said Tt is the 
 star of the Bonapartes, but also your star, Franqois. 
 Follow it.' " 
 
 The general was a hard-headed person for all his 
 cult of Napoleon, and vision-seeing appeared to him 
 nonsense. He pooh-poohed at once the idea of a star 
 divided between the house of Bonaparte and a small 
 peasant. "Your mother had better put a wet cloth 
 in your cap," he advised. "Parbleu — seeing stars in 
 midday ! Some one-legged old fighter has been gab- 
 bling before you about the star of the Bonapartes, 
 and that and a touch of sunstroke in this heat, it 
 may be, have turned you silly. Let me hear no more 
 of stars, but keep at your lesson and learn to be — " 
 
 With that he was aware that the boy did not hear 
 him. The light figure was on tiptoes — the large eyes 
 stared at the wall, and the child spoke in an unin- 
 flected voice as if something mufifled spoke through 
 him. 
 
 "I see the star," he said. "I see it through a win- 
 dow where there are iron bars . . . Ah !" The in- 
 terjection was in the boy's natural accent, and he 
 
50 THE MARSHAL' 
 
 shivered violently. "Ugh !" His teeth chattered and 
 he looked about vaguely. "It is like an ice-house. I 
 do not like those dreams; they make me so cold. 
 Seigneur, it is late; my mother will not be pleased. 
 And I must stop at the garden and pick the vege- 
 tables for supper — carrots and peas. I must hurry 
 to get the peas and carrots." 
 
 Little Alixe, clutching her father's thumb, 
 v^atched as the boy disappeared. Then, to the gen- 
 eral's astonishment, she began to sob. "I — I don't 
 know," she answered his quick question. "But I — I 
 think it is because I am sorry the little boy was so 
 cold." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 A GAME OF CARDS 
 
 HIDDEN in the mechanism of character are 
 springs unsuspected by one's nearest, un- 
 known to one's self, which the habits of every day 
 keep polished and oiled, ready for action. Many 
 times the psychological moment for their use does 
 not arrive, and a life ends with no outside history 
 but commonplace; sometimes in the midst of com- 
 monplace the touch falls on the electric button, the 
 coiled wire is sprung, and an ordinary career rises 
 unexpectedly to heroism, or falls as unexpectedly 
 by temptation. It is the habit of years which has 
 prepared the one crisis or the other. 
 
 Frangois Beaupre — Le Francois of Vieques — so- 
 ber, laborious, had in him a certain pig-headedness, 
 and also a vein of the gambler which had swollen 
 with use ; yet because it had so far brought him only 
 good luck the neighbors called this good judgment. 
 He was a dealer in working oxen; he bought and 
 raised and sold them, and only his wife knew what 
 
 SI 
 
52 THE MARSHAL 
 
 chances he often took in buying young beeves. It 
 was a simple solid form of speculation, yet it was 
 that. It had given him the custom of taking chances 
 and of confidence in his "luck", — all of which is 
 perhaps no bad thing, yet it prepared a bad thing 
 for Franqois Beaupre. Up to this time he had been 
 fortunate to a miracle and his bargains were so 
 lucky that he stood highest among his neighbors 
 for keenness and for caution. His house was the 
 largest, his table the most generous, his wife the 
 best-dressed of the village; he planned to give his 
 children, particularly young Franqois, who was 
 more than a common student, opportunities. Fran- 
 cois should go to the college at Delesmontes. No 
 other man in the place was so comfortable, and be- 
 cause of his genial and simple soul he was not en- 
 vied, Le Francois was a popular person, and it was 
 a pride to the village that his name and his prosper- 
 ity were known about the countryside. 
 
 On a day in September he left Vieques early in 
 the morning to drive to the market in Delesmontes, 
 a league distant, two pairs of oxen which he had 
 bought as calves for almost nothing from poor stock 
 out of a farm leagues away. He had fed and trained 
 and cared for them till now they were well set-up 
 and powerful and smooth-working — ready to sell 
 
A GAME OF CARDS 53 
 
 for a good price. Francois kissed his wife and the 
 baby, and called good-by to the children playing in 
 the garden, and left the little place so full of hope- 
 ful life, with contentment in his heart. He planned, 
 as he swung along the road whistling, what he 
 would do with the money which he would bring 
 back — eight hundred francs, he believed it would 
 be. Not a clearer head or lighter heart passed that 
 day along the Roman road to Delesmontes. At the 
 market he found that there were few oxen to be dis- 
 posed of, none which compared to his, and his 
 ideas of value went up — he would get nine hun- 
 dred francs for them, which delayed the sale. 
 Eight hundred he might have had easily, but the 
 other was a large price, even for the best. How- 
 ever, Franqois was cheerful and obstinate and con- 
 fident, and such qualities accomplish things — ^he got 
 his price. 
 
 But it came to be, by the time his bargain was 
 closed, three o'clock in the afternoon, and he had 
 had no dinner. With the cattle off his hands and 
 the money in his pocket he felt a sense of leisure 
 and of wealth. Hungry as a wolf he felt also, and 
 he turned into the inn of Delesmontes, where the 
 sign of a huge bear, cut out of tin and painted 
 black, swung before the door. 
 
54 THE MARSHAL 
 
 It was pleasant inside in the great clean hall of 
 the inn, twenty feet wide by forty long. Bars of 
 yellow afternoon sunlight patterned the white 
 scrubbed floor ; at the tables of black oak a number 
 of men sat on benches, bottles and glasses before 
 them, and pulled at their pipes, and the clouds of 
 smoke rose to the dark wood ceiling, bluish already 
 with much smoking; against the whitewashed walls 
 hung engravings of battles framed in red cherry- 
 wood. Doors and windows were open, and through 
 them one saw harvest fields lying gold in sunlight. 
 As Francois sat down he faced a window through 
 which, down the slow slope from Delesmontes 
 perching on the mountain, beyond a stretch of tran- 
 quil country, lifted, three miles away, a bunch of 
 roofs, red-tiled and brown-shingled, and the red 
 spire of a church with a newly-gilded ball — ^his vil- 
 lage of Vieques. He sighed hungrily and happily. 
 In half an hour, after a glass of wine and a little 
 bread and meat, he would be on his way there with 
 that comfortable purse of nine hundred francs in 
 his pocket, eager to tell his good comrade and dear 
 wife of the day's success. 
 
 He was alone at his table, but three or four men 
 whom he knew slightly nodded with friendliness 
 across the room ; he was a man who inspired friend- 
 
A GAME OF CARDS 55 
 
 liness. In the big hall, in all Delesmontes, in all 
 the country was no one happier or more satisfied 
 with life than Franqois Beaupre when he entered the 
 Inn of the Bear at three o'clock on that sunshiny 
 afternoon of September the eighth. Before six 
 he rose up to leave it a man ruined and broken- 
 hearted. 
 
 A waitress approached him — a sommelliere — ^trim 
 in her short calico skirt and white apron, her hair 
 done in the picturesque fashion of the place — 
 braided and turned around the head in the back, in 
 the front parted and laid in two great puffs with 
 a wide blue ribbon between to hold it. The girl took 
 his order; as she turned to go a man just coming 
 in knocked against her, and apologizing with many 
 words, caught sight of Franqois. 
 
 "Good day!" he saluted him heartily. "Good 
 day, Monsieur Beaupre," and Franqois, friendly 
 always, answered "Good day," but with a reserve, 
 for he did not recall the man. "You don't remem- 
 ber me? That is natural, ior we met but once. Yet 
 I have not forgotten you. It was at the house of 
 my cousin, Paul Noirjean of Devillier — ^he who 
 also deals in oxen, though not so fortunately as you, 
 perhaps. We met there. I saw you only a few 
 minutes, but I have not forgotten you, and my 
 
56 THE MARSHAL 
 
 cousin also speaks very often of Fran9ois Beaupre. 
 He has a great opinion of your judgment." 
 
 Now Paul Noirjean was an old acquaintance and 
 a solid man, and though Beaupre did not see him 
 often, living six leagues away, he respected him 
 highly. A cousin of his was to be considered, and 
 Frangois was embarrassed that his memory could 
 not focus on the meeting. He tried to cover this 
 with cordiality, and invited the stranger to share 
 his meal. 
 
 "Not at all, not at all," the other answered. "Yet 
 we must have a bottle of wine together, but it shall 
 be my bottle." 
 
 Frangois objected; the man insisted. At length: 
 "See, we will play cards for that bottle," the un- 
 known man suggested, and the cards were brought, 
 and a game of La rams — euchre — was in progress in 
 two minutes. 
 
 Meanwhile the wine had come, and Franqois, a 
 touch more generous and more cordial for it, was 
 genially sorry when he won and the stranger must 
 pay. 
 
 "Tiens! We will play again for another bottle," 
 he announced with a bit of swagger. He was con- 
 scious of a right to spend silver in treating his 
 friends, with that fat purse in his pocket. 
 
A GAME OF CARDS 57 
 
 "No," spoke the stranger — Duplessis, he had said 
 his name was. "No. I have drunk enough. How- 
 ever, if you feel sensitive at taking the small sum of 
 money at my hands — it is a good game — La rams — 
 let us play for the franc which the bottle would cost. 
 Eh Men!" 
 
 Franqois certainly could not refuse that; they 
 played, and again he gained. Again they played, 
 this time doubling the amount, and again Franqois 
 gained, and again and again, till he felt ashamed in 
 carrying away all this money of a new acquaintance, 
 and at the same time a cock-sureness that so lucky a 
 devil as Beaupre might well lose a little and stop at 
 the right amount. He insisted that the game should 
 go on. More wine had been brought. The excite- 
 ment of cards and excitement of wine met in a 
 heady mixture ; Duplessis drank little, though Fran- 
 cois urged it on him. The luck began to change; 
 now and then the stranger won, now and then 
 Beaupre, yet more often now the stranger, till at 
 length Francois was playing not with the desire to 
 lose, but with a hope to gain back something at least 
 of the considerable sum which he had lost. Before 
 this he had gone into his pocket and brought out 
 that honorable nine hundred francs, and had thrown 
 one louis d'or after another on the black table, and 
 
S8 THE MARSHAL 
 
 lost one after another. Yet his confidence was still 
 strong — luck would turn — this was his lucky day. 
 And now he would not regret carrying away the 
 stranger's money. He began to feel a fierce eager- 
 ness to get the better of this antagonist become so 
 formidable. And a horrible nervousness was creep- 
 ing over him at the dim vision of a thought — a 
 thought kept resolutely on the confines of his con- 
 sciousness, yet persistently pushing forward — ^the 
 thought that it might be that he could not win the 
 money back. 
 
 With eyes excited and bright on the table, with 
 fingers snapping out the cards boldly, that thought 
 shook him suddenly — he jeered at it and despised it. 
 It was absurd, grotesque. He was Francois Beau- 
 pre, a rich peasant, a respected and well-known 
 citizen; moreover, of good judgment; and moreover 
 still, lucky. He had been lucky all his life; always 
 things had turned his way; the trick was not going 
 to fail him now. 
 
 "Double!" he shouted promptly as he lost again. 
 
 And he lost again. The nine hundred francs were 
 gone; he gave a note now, on his stock, and again 
 he lost. A deathly sickening sensation had gripped 
 him and was holding him; the horrid thought had 
 come close and was looking him in the face; he 
 
A GAME OF CARDS 59 
 
 seemed to feel an appalling hot breath from it. He 
 tossed off another glass of wine and for a moment 
 was dumb. Then in a flash he saw what he must do ; 
 this was of course the last point before the luck 
 turned — ^that was evident. It would make a fine tale 
 how Le Francois had come within one of losing all 
 he owned, but even then his courage had not failed 
 him. He had drunk off his wine at that crucial 
 moment and called "Double !" once more in a stout 
 voice, and played — ^and won. Won back all he had 
 lost and more — so the tale would run. 
 
 And so Franqois set down the glass empty, and 
 for the last time cried the fatal word — "Double!" 
 
 In silence, with a crowd of silent men, who in 
 some way had come to know what was happening, 
 standing about them, the two played the last round. 
 And Franqois lost. 
 
 In silence he signed the note which gave to the 
 stranger his house and furniture and land, all that 
 he had in the world, and stood up and looked about 
 at the faces gathered as if astonished. A long 
 second he looked at them; then he bent and stared 
 from the low open window which faced him, and the 
 men, following his eyes, saw with a manner of shock 
 that they were focused on the distant village of 
 Vieques and on the church standing separated at one 
 
6o THE MARSHAL 
 
 end of it, and on the house next, his home. With 
 that he stood straight, and fell through the crowd 
 without a word, and out of the doorway, and 
 plunged forward with strides which lurched drunk- 
 enly. But he was not drunk. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 WORK AND HOPE 
 
 THE next day a sheriff and his clerk came and 
 fixed red seals to the house and to everything 
 in it which locked, and Claire watched in a deep 
 quiet, the baby in her arms. The children watched 
 too, awed, but yet pleased, as it is with children, to 
 be part of an event. Tomas bragged openly to 
 Alphonse Villeneuve. 
 
 "You have no affairs at your house," he observed. 
 "At our house all the neighbors are crying, and 
 there is a very fine man, the sheriff, who puts red 
 things on the table drawers and on my father's desk. 
 It is amusing to have affairs." 
 
 It came as a surprise to such honest pride to re- 
 ceive at this moment a blow on the ear from his 
 older brother. "Blockhead," Frangois said, "do you 
 not understand that we are losing our home? Is 
 that amusing?" 
 
 The brown eyes of Frangois were burning like 
 coals as he stalked away from Tomas — quiet for 
 
 6i 
 
62 THE MARSHAL 
 
 once — ^like a tragedy hero. On his shoulders, it 
 seemed, was the weight of the world, and he could 
 not, as he longed to, carry it. He, being the oldest 
 son, should, according to his code of eleven years, 
 take up his nightmare which had turned his gay 
 capable father into a crushed heap sitting there at 
 the table of the great room, and his happy calm- 
 eyed mother into a haggard statue of a woman. He 
 ought to lift it from them and throw it far away 
 by some heroic effort, but he did not know how to 
 begin. The sheriff seemed as sorry as any one; it 
 was of no use to attack the sheriff, which he had 
 considered. And that evil spirit, that man who had 
 taken their happiness in an afternoon, Duplessis, 
 kept far away. His heart swollen with affection and 
 aching for action, Franqois stood about uselessly. 
 In him grew a resolve that he would give up all that 
 he had hoped for, the normal school at Delesmontes, 
 the college after, everything, to work and win back 
 the lost home for his people. 
 
 Something had been said already of sending the 
 children to this or that uncle or aunt — there would 
 in a short time be no home and no living for them 
 until the broken father could gather himself and 
 begin again. Little Fran9ois resolved that he would 
 not go. He would stay with his father and prove 
 
WORK AND HOPE 63 
 
 that eleven was not too young to make money. As 
 he stood watching the sheriff who moved gloomily 
 about his unwelcome duty he was aware of a horse's 
 hoofs beating down the road, and he turned. In 
 the midst of his grief it was interesting to see the 
 Baron-General Gdurgaud coming, on his bay mare 
 Lisette. The general drew up beside him and 
 looked at him sternly. 
 
 "Where is your father?" he shot at him, and 
 threw a leg over and vaulted off and flung the mare's 
 reins to the lad, and swung into the great entry and 
 through the open door into the cottage. 
 
 Frangois, though broken-hearted, was but eleven, 
 and it was a proud thing to hold the seigneur's horse 
 and pleasant to see the spirited beast paw the earth 
 as he held her. He was so entranced with this occu- 
 pation that he forgot his bruised life and his lost 
 career entirely. For fifteen minutes he forgot, and 
 the other children gathered around him, and he or- 
 dered them away from the horse and felt himself its 
 guardian and an important person, with complete 
 satisfaction. 
 
 And at that, out of the house came the seigneur, 
 big and black-browed and solid of tread, and with 
 him that broken-hearted father whose face recalled 
 all the tragedy. 
 
64 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "Franqois," his father spoke, more gently than 
 ever he had spoken before, "I have taken your future 
 from you, my son. The seigneur wishes to give it 
 back. He wishes to make you his child. Your 
 mother consents — and I — I consent." His father's 
 arm was about his neck. The general's abrupt voice 
 took up the statement. 
 
 "Will you come and live with me in the chateau, 
 Monsieur the Marshal?" he demanded roughly, 
 kindly. "I will treat you as a son — you shall learn 
 to ride a horse and shoot a gun and be a soldier. 
 You shall fit yourself for the part which we know 
 must be played one day. Will you come ?" 
 
 Frangois, staring up with his great eyes stretched, 
 was dumb. Just now all that he had hoped for in 
 life had been snatched from him ; more than he had 
 dreamed was now offered in a turn of the hand. 
 For a moment it seemed that heaven had opened and 
 a miracle of joy come down; then it flashed to his 
 mind that this dazzling gift had a price. He felt 
 the touch of his father, the ruined sorrowful father; 
 he saw in the shadow of the entry his mother who 
 listened; in a flood he remembered their lifelong 
 love and his resolutions of five minutes ago — ^the 
 hard life of labor and saving which he had planned 
 for himself. There is no half-way with a child. 
 
WORK AND HOPE 65 
 
 With a whole soul Francois cast away the brilliant 
 dream and hardly felt an effort. 
 
 "I thank you a thousand times, my Seigneur," he 
 answered with decision. "I can not go with you. 
 I must stay and work for my father and my 
 mother." 
 
 There was silence for a minute in the sunshiny 
 garden; the children had wandered away; the men 
 did not speak; one heard only the mare Lisette 
 whom Frangois held, who stamped her light fore- 
 foot and whinnied impatiently. Then the general's 
 grave voice sounded, more gravely than ever. 
 
 "Franqois Beaupre, you own a fine lad," he 
 threw at the drooping peasant. "I would like to 
 have him for mine. Since I can not, I shall try at 
 least to be his friend. Monsieur the Marshal, it 
 must be as you say. But come to see me at the 
 chateau soon. I shall have things to talk over with 
 you." 
 
 Little Franqois, absorbed in admiration of the 
 easy way in which the seigneur threw a leg across 
 the restless Lisette, wishing desperately that he 
 might learn to ride such a horse, was disconcerted, 
 as the dancing brown feet cantered away, to feel his 
 father's arms holding him suddenly, closely, and a 
 wetness on his cheek. 
 
66 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "Why are you crying, my father?" he asked won- 
 dering. 
 
 Three weeks later, of all the seven children only 
 Francois and the baby were left with their father 
 and mother. The others were portioned out, one 
 here, two there, among charitable uncles and aunts 
 until the time should come, if ever, when Le Fran- 
 gois should prosper enough again to care for them 
 all. He had rented a small cottage at the other end 
 of the village, and Claire, in happy times a quiet 
 woman of few words, had suddenly acquired pro- 
 nounced gaiety. The little feet of her seemed al- 
 ways moving about the poor place and she sang at 
 her work, which was a new habit. 
 
 "How can you?" the elder Frangois asked one 
 day, and she explained to him. 
 
 "A house without brightness might as well not be. 
 In the other time you were cheerful always— at 
 present you can not be, so I do it for you. With 
 hope and work everything will come right again, 
 and I dare not stop hoping or working. I dare not 
 let grief take hold of me, for it would choke me. 
 We have two children, and we shall get back the 
 rest. Do not look backward, my Fran9ois, where 
 
WORK AND HOPE 67 
 
 there was joy, but forward, where there will be 
 joy." 
 
 And big Francois brought down his fist with a 
 bang on the table. "It is the right stuff that is in 
 you. It is the women who are brave. I will be like 
 a woman if I may! I will stop this whining and 
 live like you, whom I have ruined." 
 
 And he did it. So it happened that the memory 
 of little Francois held only pleasant pictures of those 
 days of sudden poverty; recollections of a bare little 
 place which shaped swiftly to attractiveness, of 
 comradeship with his father in the business of 
 money-getting; of deep satisfaction at feeling him- 
 self a factor in the growing hoard, and, above all, a 
 recollection of that exquisite gaiety of his mother 
 which had no likeness to resignation or duty, but 
 rang with the unselfishness of love. Moreovei", the 
 hard labor to which he had sentenced himself came 
 in an unexpected and delightful shape. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW 
 
 ON a morning Francois was busy at the new 
 garden, digging beds for the plants which the 
 neighbors had eagerly given them, and which, put 
 in the ground now, in the autumn, would rise above 
 them in brightness next spring. He heard the dishes 
 clatter as his mother inside set the table for their 
 bare dinner; he smelled the soup cooking; he heard 
 his mother sing as she moved about; he lifted his 
 head and saw her through the open window, in a 
 bar of misty sunshine. The world seemed bright; 
 surely when there is sunshine and the smell of good 
 earth and the smell of good food, when one's mother 
 sings — then the world is bright. Franqois fell to 
 whistling A I'ecoie du Roi, the old chanson which 
 his mother sang. 
 
 Into this contentment came, galloping gloriously, 
 hoof beats of a horse. The busy spade, several 
 sizes too big, stopped, and Franqois leaned his chin 
 on the handle, the boy out of drawing for the tool. 
 
 68 
 
THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW 69 
 
 He stood, like a quaint little old workman, watching 
 to see the general pass, the general on that apothe- 
 osis of horse-flesh, Lisette. But the general stopped, 
 which was a heavenly surprise to Fran9ois each time 
 that it happened. 
 
 "Good morning. Marshal. How goes the fight- 
 ing ? The colonel, your father, is in the field, is he 
 not? Will you ask the lieutenant-colonel, your 
 mother, if I may speak to her?" 
 
 And the general, flinging titles about him, sprang 
 to the ground. "All marshals to stay inside," he 
 shouted after the boy. "Council of war excluding 
 field-officers above generals." 
 
 "Mother, mother, the seigneur wishes you," 
 Frangois whispered piercingly, but Claire was al- 
 ready on the little front walk by the new garden. 
 
 In a moment she stood at the gate in her fresh 
 calico dress, with a white fichu over her head, and 
 the big man towered and growled sentences friend- 
 lily. Frangois, obedient in the cottage, gazed ear- 
 nestly from the window out of earshot, incurious, 
 admiring. Long years after he remembered the 
 picture : the little boy, whose life was being settled, 
 gazing from the humble house at the old soldier who 
 opened a door for that small life into large possi- 
 bilities ; and the mother who loved him and saw the 
 
70 THE MARSHAL 
 
 first step for her boy on a ladder that mounted 
 above her. 
 
 Then the general trotted with jingling stirrup 
 down the village street and Claire stood with eyes 
 following for a moment. When she turned she was 
 smiling yet, but Francois vaguely wondered at the 
 movement which twisted her mouth for a second as 
 she looked at him. She put her arm around his neck 
 and kissed him, which was pleasant but seemed un- 
 practical. 
 
 "What did the seigneur say, my mother?" he de- 
 manded, struggling away. "Did he say I might 
 come to the chateau to-morrow ? May I ? Am I to 
 know what the general said, my mother ?" 
 
 For he considered the seigneur his property; he 
 was a bit injured at being excluded from the council 
 of war, he, the Marshal. 
 
 After his father came home to dinner he knew. 
 He was to go each morning to the chateau and do 
 work in copying for the general. The general was 
 writing a book, nothing less than a history of Na- 
 poleon himself. The boy's great dreamy eyes 
 glowed. What luck to help in such a glory ! How 
 glad he was that he wrote fastest and most accu- 
 rately of all the boys in school! And the general 
 was to pay him six francs a week — it was dazzling ! 
 
THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW 71 
 
 That would make the hoard mount beyond anything 
 he had dared to hope. That would be a real help to 
 his mother and to his father — "Is it not, my 
 father?" 
 
 And the father said yes, proudly. And neither 
 mother nor father suggested that there was even 
 more to this great future. 
 
 So the little lad, in his clean, patched, peasant 
 clothes, went up to the chateau the next morning 
 serious and important, and was given a table and a 
 corner in the library and words to copy which 
 thrilled his soul. For the very first was about the 
 battle of Austerlitz and the sunshine and the frozen 
 river; it seemed a fate big enough for any life to sit 
 there in the quiet book-lined room and write out 
 such things direct from a man who had seen them. 
 
 It came to be the spring of the year, and day after 
 day Frangois trod the path down the village street 
 past his old home, which he resolutely looked away 
 from, and across the arch of the old Roman bridge. 
 From there he glanced up always to see the first 
 broad view of the red castled roof with the gray 
 towers below, vague through the trees. There were 
 nuts by the thousand in the stately beech woods of 
 the castled park, but Franqois was too busy a man to 
 stop for nuts in the mornings. Straight on he 
 
72 THE MARSHAL 
 
 marched to the httle side door, and there Jean 
 Phillippe Moison, the son of Jean Philhppe Moison 
 of Delesmontes, now a footman at the chateau and 
 the wearer of very beautiful purple and gold clothes, 
 opened the door and let him in. 
 
 Day after day, week after week he labored with 
 all his might at the piles of manuscript; when it was 
 a question of battle, murder and sudden death he 
 was a happy boy, and also he sometimes made mis- 
 takes for joy of the story; but when descriptions of 
 the Emperor's policy came, and lists of provisions 
 and such things, then, naturally, one was at times 
 tired. Yet the work followed the bent of his in- 
 clination, for all that concerned war and soldiers 
 concerned this lad of twelve. World after world 
 opened before him as he worked in the big room at 
 his table, set into the window slitted into the deep 
 gray wall. A bookcase stood out at the angle there ; 
 one would hardly see the still little figure, the thin 
 ankles twisted about the rounds of the high chair, 
 the slim shoulders bent over the sheets of writing. 
 Often the general talked to him. 
 
 "Eh bien, there, the Marshal !" would come thun- 
 dering, from the great table across the room; and 
 the scribe would drop his pen and scuttle over the 
 dim wide place. 
 
THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW 73 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur the Seigneur. I am here." 
 
 "Listen then, my soldier. I am uncertain if this 
 that I have written is of importance. It is interest- 
 ing to me, because Gaspard Gourgaud was there, 
 yet I do not wish to ram Gaspard Gourgaud down a 
 reader's throat. So listen, you marmot, as an officer 
 of rank, and as a hterary critic, and say truthfully 
 if you find it interesting." 
 
 Francois squatted on a stool exactly in front of 
 the general, with his knees together and his elbows 
 on them, his chin in the hollow of his hands. His 
 eyes were glued on the general's face. In a deep 
 voice the general read. It was an account of that 
 world-tragedy, the retreat from Moscow. First 
 came a list of regiments and of officers, with de- 
 tailed accounts of early service in both ; it was exact, 
 accurate. For five minutes the general read this; 
 then his black eyebrows lifted and he glared over 
 the paper. 
 
 "You find it interesting?" he demanded. 
 
 Frangois, lips compressed, shook his head firmly. 
 "No, my Seigneur. Not at all." And the general's 
 gaze concentrated fiercely on the humble patch of 
 brown homespun. The boy's great eyes met his 
 calmly. 
 
 "I agree with you," the general said, and sorted 
 
74 THE MARSHAL 
 
 the papers over and laid some away. "You are an 
 uncommon critic," he went on. "You speak the 
 truth. It is what I want." Selecting a sheet or two, 
 he began to read again. 
 
 "Over the frozen roads the worn army still 
 trudged; every form of misery trudged with them. 
 Hunger was there, and cold, and suffering of 
 wounds, and suffering of lack of clothing; more 
 than this, there was the constant dread of attack 
 from flying bands of Cossacks. From time to time 
 frightful explosions made one turn one's head — it 
 was the caissons exploded by order of the Emperor 
 that they might no longer encumber us. The snow 
 fell. The low-hanging sky was heavy with more 
 snow-clouds; often a wind cut to our ill-covered 
 bones; the road was sleety; the worn shoes of the 
 emaciated horses slipped on the frozen ground; the 
 soldiers put their shoulders to the wheels to help 
 their horses." 
 
 Through the reverberating tones of the old soldier 
 cut a child's sigh. The bushy eyebrows arched and 
 a glance shot over the paper at the tense small figure. 
 The voice went on. 
 
 "The Emperor marched on foot with us. Staff in 
 hand, wrapped in a large loose cloak, a furred 
 Russian cap on his head, he walked in the midst oi 
 
THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW T^ 
 
 his household, encouraging with a word, with a 
 smile, every one who came near him. At night he 
 slept often in a cabin without doors or windows, his 
 rough bed screened with difficulty; he shared our 
 sorrows, our Little Corporal, our Emperor. He was 
 pale, but calm as always, for his face never showed 
 his mind. Over frozen roads of Russia, strewn with 
 the men and horses who were killed by fatigue and 
 famine, day after day Napoleon walked with his 
 army." 
 
 There was no sound now, but the general, glanc- 
 ing up again, met eyes so on fire that he was dis- 
 concerted and lost his place. In a moment he had 
 found it again. 
 
 "There were many adventures which showed the 
 souls of men shining through the nightmare of this 
 horrible time. Many noble deeds were done, many 
 heartbreaking ones. One which was both happened 
 to me. There was an Italian officer in the corps 
 under Prince Eugene, who had been my comrade 
 when I was on the staff of Lannes; his name was 
 Zappi — the Marquis Zappi. On the day after the 
 dreadful passing of the Beresina River, I suddenly 
 felt my strength go — I could walk no longer. The 
 horrors of the day before had capped the long 
 stretch of privation; like thousands of others, I 
 
76 THE MARSHAL 
 
 must drop out and die. I looked at the piles of 
 snow by the trampled roadside, at the gray sky over 
 me — on that frozen bed, under that pitiless roof, I 
 must lie down. A sick loathing seized me, and I 
 groaned and dragged my heavy feet forward, to 
 stay with my friends even a few steps more. And 
 with that an arm was around me suddenly, and I 
 heard Zappi's quiet voice. 
 
 " 'Keep up your courage, comrade ; we are going 
 to see our homes yet,' he said. 'I shall take care of 
 you. Look' — and I looked, and he had a sledge 
 with fur robes on it. I never knew where he got 
 it — from some deserted Russian house, I suppose. 
 He put me on the sledge and wrapped me in the 
 furs and gave me brandy from his flask. For Zappi 
 had done a clever thing. He had made a bargain 
 with some Jesuits near Polotsk, where he had 
 camped for a while, that his men should cut and 
 beat the wheat necessary on condition that he should 
 have a part of the brandy for them. He had kept 
 some of his share yet, and it saved my life that day, 
 the brandy of the monks of Polotsk. 
 
 "So Zappi drew me, weak and helpless, on the 
 sledge for days, and cared for me like a baby, and 
 brought me back to comparative strength. One 
 would believe that after such kindness I would 
 
THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW ^^ 
 
 gladly have given my life for my friend ; instead of 
 that I tried to take his life." 
 
 The shock that caught the little figure down on 
 the stool arrested the general's deep voice. He Xov^- 
 ered the paper and glared. "But wait, Monsieur 
 the Marshal ; wait till you hear the story ; don't con- 
 demn a man unheard," he interjected. The reading 
 went on. 
 
 "There was a thick fog on that day, and out of 
 it, and out of the wood we must pass, rushed with 
 wild cries a cloud of mounted Cossacks across the 
 road within twenty paces of the Emperor himself. 
 But General Rapp dashed forward at the head of 
 two mounted squadrons of chasseurs and grenadiers 
 of the guard who always followed the Emperor, and 
 the Cossacks were put to flight. I was in the charge ; 
 I was serving temporarily in the place of one of 
 Rapp's officers, because, on account of my late 
 weakness, it was thought well that I should be on 
 horseback. So it happened that, as the skirmish 
 finished, I saw coming toward me a figure in a 
 furred coat and cap, brandishing a Cossack lance — 
 rushing toward the Emperor. I dashed down on the 
 mad Cossack, as I thought him, and passed my 
 great saber through his body. And the man fell, 
 and as he fell the fur cap went off and he groaned 
 
-^^ THE MARSHAL 
 
 and looked up at me with dying eyes— it was 
 Zappi." 
 
 "Ah !" The little figure had sprung up and stood, 
 fists clenched, threatening. One would have thought 
 it was this second that the general had sabered 
 Zappi. 
 
 "May I live a moment?" the general inquired. 
 "Till I explain. Zappi did not die." 
 
 "Ah!" again. And Franqois sank relieved on the 
 stool, yet with stern eyes still on the general's face. 
 The general laid the papers aside. 
 
 "Not he. He had seized the lance from a Russian 
 whom he had killed — it was most imprudent, espe- 
 cially in the dress he wore, which did not show the 
 French uniform underneath. It was my turn then 
 to play nurse. He was placed in one of the car- 
 riages of the Emperor, and I cared for him as my 
 own brother, and he came through it all, and went 
 back to Italy, to his home." 
 
 The general's deep-set eyes were gazing now 
 above Franqois' head out through the narrow win- 
 dow where the boy's table stood, across the moun- 
 tain slope, to the blue distance. 
 
 "Alessandro, my friend," he spoke in his gruflf 
 tones, yet softly, "shall we see each other again? 
 So close through that black time, so far apart now 
 
THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW 79 
 
 in the peace of our homes! Those warm hands 
 which cared for me when I was freezing and dying 
 in Russia — I shall touch them perhaps never again, 
 never again !" 
 
 Frangois, forgotten in the general's very French 
 access of emotion, squatted in front of him and re- 
 garded him in a practical peasant fashion. With 
 that he spoke, businesslike, fatherly. 
 
 "One should not say that word never, my Sei- 
 gneur," he remarked. "One should believe that the 
 good thing will happen, and if the good God thinks 
 best it will happen. Besides that,(if one believes a 
 thing to be true, it is all the same as if it were true." 
 
 The general, brought to the right-about by this 
 firmness, looked down with an enormous frown. 
 "Ha! A wise little old Marshal! It is lucky for 
 me that I have such to superintend me. How came 
 you to know these great thoughts. Monsieur ?" 
 
 "It is my mother who says that," Francois an- 
 swered, undisturbed by the sarcasm. "So, my Sei- 
 gneur, because my mother says it, I know it to be 
 the truth." 
 
 "Ha!" exploded the general again, and then, re- 
 flectively: "It is a simple and inexpensive philos- 
 ophy — on the whole there might be worse." 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE CROWN OF FRIENDSHIP 
 
 IN a claw- footed, carved, old, mahogany desk of a 
 Virginia house, in a drawer where are packets 
 of yellowed letters tied up and labeled, is a letter 
 written years later, referring to that earlier time in 
 France. Perhaps this bit of the chronicle of Fran- 
 gois Beaupre could not be told so vividly as in these 
 words of Frangois written from his prison. He 
 begins with the account of an adventure, of a ride 
 for life. 
 
 "So, dear Alixe," he finishes this — the detailed 
 story of his capture — "down went the poor horse, 
 and over his head I spun into the ditch with a bump 
 on the skull which dazed me. And when I came to 
 there were the heavy Austrians around me, gaping 
 to see the Prince. And only Franqois Beaupre to 
 see, which they found out pretty promptly, as I 
 have told you before, and also how I defied them. 
 But it was a good ride; I felt that all through the 
 mad rush, and if you will believe me, Alixe, as I 
 
 80 
 
THE CROWN OF FRIENDSHIP 8i 
 
 rode fast from my enemies that morning, with more 
 than my own life depending on the legs of the land- 
 lord's horse, I was thinking most, not of the Prince, 
 nor yet of the death or prison which awaited me, 
 but all the time of those rides on Coq in the park of 
 the chateau of Vieques, when you and I went by 
 turns over his lively head, and the seigneur stood by 
 and laughed. 
 
 "You remember those rides? I have no need to 
 ask you, but it pleases me to say 'do you remember' 
 — it takes me out of this dark place into the beech 
 wood with its air and lights and shadows. Away 
 back it takes me, to that first morning when Coq 
 came and work was not even considered for the 
 whole day, and you and the seigneur and the two 
 grooms — ^Jules I remember, I have forgotten the 
 other's name ; but I know well how he looked — and 
 I, Francois, spent the morning in the park, and you 
 and I by turns learned to ride Coq. You were good 
 at it from the first, and I — I was not bad. N'est-ce 
 pas, Alixe? None the less Coq put each of us over 
 his head several times — and how the seigneur 
 shouted a big laugh each time ! He treated you like 
 a boy always, and you learned so the good things 
 that few ^rls know — to throw a ball and climb and 
 run, to be courageous and laugh when hurt. You 
 
82 THE MARSHAL 
 
 were the best playmate in the world, Alixe, and it is 
 Frangois Beaupre, the leader of the village for play, 
 who says it. That game of all games, riding, we 
 learned together and took the hard knocks equally. 
 Many times I have thanked the seigneur for many 
 things, but never so much, I believe, as I thanked 
 him that morning with the Austrians closing on me 
 for having made me a horseman — ^because that 
 saved the Prince. 
 
 "In a great danger they say one thinks more 
 clearly than usual — one's mind works with smooth- 
 ness and at leisure. It was so during that ride, for 
 I followed out as I dashed along, hearing the shouts 
 of the men back of me, the whole train of circum- 
 stances from one of those mornings with Coq in the 
 park, to this adventure of life and death. It was the 
 morning — you will know before I say it — ^when 
 Jean Phillippe Moison, in his lovely purple clothes, 
 came mincing down the graveled drive, as if afraid 
 of spoiling his good shoes — and I think he was — to 
 the seigneur, who taught us to ride Coq. Do you 
 remember how your father thundered at him ? 
 
 " 'A strange monsieur to see me ? Impossible ! I 
 am engaged. Tell him I will not see him.' 
 
 "And Jean Phillippe smiling, for all of them un- 
 derstood the seigneur, and saying gently, 'Yes, my 
 
THE CROWN OF FRIENDSHIP 83 
 
 Seigneur,' turned away with the message. And 
 your father shouted after him : 
 
 " 'Stop ! Come back there ! What do you mean 
 by that? Bring the monsieur to me.' And the 
 purple clothes disappeared and appeared again in a 
 few minutes gleaming in the sun against the gray 
 old walls — I can see it all now, Alixe — like a large 
 violet blossom of a strange flower. And behind Jean 
 Phillippe was a tall man in a long traveling cloak, 
 and behind him a tall little boy. And as they came 
 the seigneur turned to go to meet them, and stopped 
 and stared. And the monsieur in the cloak stopped 
 and stared ; and you, mounted on Coq, and I, hold- 
 ing Coq's bridle, watched curiously, because of the 
 other child, and we saw how the seigneur suddenly 
 began to shake as if ill, and then with a hoarse shout 
 rushed to the tall man and threw his arms about 
 him and held him, and sobbed aloud. That was a 
 strange thing to see the seigneur do, and I never 
 forgot it. And to think that the child who stood 
 there, shy and unknown, was Pietro ! It seems un- 
 reasonable that ever there was a time when you and 
 Pietro and I did not know one another well. 
 
 "As I rode that day, with the Austrians after me, 
 I thought out the whole chain of events; how 
 Pietro had come and had stayed while his father, 
 
84 THE MARSHAL 
 
 the marquis, went to America, and had fitted into 
 our life and become dear to us, the big, beautiful, 
 silent lad. And how then, because of the death of 
 the marquis, Pietro had come under the charge of 
 your father, the seigneur, and how he and I went 
 away together to the military school, always more 
 and more like brothers and — all the rest. I need 
 not recite those things to you, yet I like to do it. 
 My thoughts, in that wild dangerous moment, 
 seemed to go in detail through all, from the morning 
 that the Marquis Zappi arrived with his little son 
 at the chateau, through the ten years of our life to- 
 gether, to my coming into Italy as his secretary—! 
 and from that, by a rapid step, to this castle prison." 
 
 The rest of the letter belongs to a later part of the 
 story. That little Pietro Zappi should be led into 
 the narrative by the hand of his closest friend was 
 the object for which the letter was introduced, and, 
 that accomplished, the course of history bends back 
 to the quiet Valley Delesmontes and the children 
 growing up under the shadow of the castle towers. 
 
 The general, sitting in his library the morning 
 after the arrival chronicled in the quoted letter, 
 stared at his old friend from under his heavy brows 
 as if trying vigorously to convince himself of his 
 presence. The marquis, an Italian of North Itdy, 
 
THE CROWN OF FRIENDSHIP 85 
 
 tall and proud and quiet, had the air more of a 
 student than of a soldier. A little the air, also, of 
 an invalid, for he stooped and walked languidly, 
 and a cough caught him at times. He was talking, 
 on that morning in the library, while the general 
 listened ; it was not the usual order of things. Work 
 on the book had been given over ; the young secre- 
 tary had been ordered out to play, and outside, 
 through the open window, one heard the children's 
 voices in shouts and laughter. Alixe and Frangois 
 were teaching Pietro to ride Coq. The marquis 
 turned his head toward the window a little as the 
 sounds of gaiety floated in, and smiled gently, and 
 the general frowned ferociously, which meant the 
 same thing. 
 
 "So you see, Gaspard," the marquis went on in 
 his quiet reticent way, "that I have believed in our 
 old friendship. I have taken for granted a welcome 
 for my boy — I could not have done it with another 
 man. The voyage to America and my stay there 
 will last, it may be a year. I can not take the boy 
 with me — ^he is too young to travel as I must. His 
 brother died two years ago, his mother is just dead ; 
 he is lonely; I could not leave him in Castelforte 
 alone with servants. So I thought of my old 
 friend Gaspard Gourgaud and of what we had suf- 
 
86 THE MARSHAL 
 
 fered together, and how suffering binds people; and 
 I thought of words you said once, Gaspard, that if 
 a time should come when I needed you, no matter 
 when or how, you would be ready. So — though I 
 know that men in general forget and live in the 
 present, and fret to be recalled to dead friendships — 
 yet I dared to believe you were different. I have 
 brought Pietro to leave him with you if you will 
 have him, while I go to America." 
 
 Nothing could have gone beyond the savageness 
 of the general's face as his friend finished speaking. 
 His eyes flashed fire, his eyebrows gathered into a 
 line of bushy defiance, his mouth set grimly; he was 
 a living threat of assault and battery. His voice 
 came with a fierce rumble, well suited to his look. 
 "If you had not done it, Alessandro," he growled, 
 "if you had not trusted me, I — I — !" and with that 
 the thunder-storm broke down. 
 
 This old officer of Napoleon had, after all his 
 battles and killings, the simplicity and the heart of 
 his own little girl. But he cleared his throat hur- 
 riedly with a bravado of carelessness, and before 
 the marquis could do more than smile at him wist- 
 fully, he went on. 
 
 "It is all settled; there was no need of a word; 
 Pietro is my son till you claim him from me, and 
 
THE CROWN OF FRIENDSHIP 87 
 
 glad enough I am to get him for as long as I may. 
 I have a lien on a very good manner of boy already, 
 young Fran9ois Beaupre, whom I wished to adopt, 
 but the lad would not give up his parents. And that 
 makes me more eager for another. They will play 
 better together and work better together, and they 
 will be a good brace of brothers for my Alixe." 
 
 "Your Alixe," the marquis spoke reflectively. 
 "She is a charming person, that little woman of 
 yours." 
 
 Again the general looked as if in a terrific rage. 
 "She is 'the best thing that lives," ha announced, 
 and suddenly smiled. "Alessandro, shall I tell you 
 what flashed into my head before you and Pietro 
 had been here an hour ?" 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 "I saw the children — ^your boy and my girl — to- 
 gether as if lifelong playmates over the big books 
 in the window-seat there, and it came to me that it 
 would be a joy to crown one's life if — later on — " 
 He stopped and gazed inquiringly at the calm eyes 
 which met his. 
 
 "Yes," the marquis answered quietly. "It would 
 be that — the crown of our friendship, if some day 
 they might love each other." 
 
 And with that the general gave a great shout of 
 
88 THE MARSHAL 
 
 laughter and leaned forward and seized his friend's 
 hand in a bear's grip. 
 
 "It is unbelievable — it is heaven — it is a dream 
 come true that you are here, Alessandro. And here 
 we sit, after all these years, we old soldiers of Na- 
 poleon, and instead of talking of campaigns and 
 battles, we plot a marriage like grandmothers. A 
 marriage! Listen to those babies shouting outside 
 over the pony ! Such thoughts are far enough from 
 them — sapristi! And there is indeed plenty of time ; 
 they are only babies yet." His voice stopped, but 
 his eyes lingered on the face of the other as if he 
 could not look enough to convince himself of its 
 reality. "Tell me about your journey, Alessandro, 
 as you promised, and why you should go that un- 
 heard-of distance, to that vague, just possible coun- 
 try, America, to get land." 
 
 So the marquis, sitting in the French castle, with 
 the Jura Mountains standing far off as he lifted his 
 eyes, with the summer wind blowing in at the win- 
 dow and the children's voices calling to each other 
 outside, told at length a story of negotiations, of 
 business arrangements, of a tract of land not yet 
 seen which was to become one day of vital impor- 
 tance to those careless children who played. He 
 told, what the general partly knew, how many fol- 
 
THE CROWN OF FRIENDSHIP 89 
 
 lowers of the Emperor, including his brother Jerome 
 Bonaparte, had bought tracts of land under that 
 new government, the United States, and how several 
 of them had gone out to this land, taking many 
 things with them and looking to live there as in 
 France in seigneurial dignity. How, through one of 
 the Bonapartist emigres and through his connec- 
 tions in America, Zappi had been offered a chance 
 to buy five thousand acres in the state of Virginia ; 
 how he had considered the condition of Italy — that 
 it was torn and worn with wars, that the Austrians 
 were gaining in power, that his house was a marked 
 one on the side of Italian liberty, and sure to be 
 among the first to be punished if Austrian power 
 were triumphant ; that if such a time came it might 
 mean everything to him or to his son to have a home 
 and a domain beyond the reach of the tyrant's hand. 
 For that reason he had thought it wise to cross the 
 ocean and take possession of this land; and to do 
 this quickly, because — the marquis stopped and 
 looked at the general, and the general looked back 
 fiercely. 
 
 "What then ?" the latter demanded savagely. "It 
 is well, of course, to do things at once, when one 
 decides. But is there any hurry in particular for 
 you, you hardened old veteran?" 
 
90 THE MARSHAL 
 
 The marquis smiled his gentle slow smile. "A 
 little hurry for me, Gaspard," he answered. "The 
 doctors tell me that my heart is not strong; a man 
 dies suddenly of that trouble sometimes." 
 
 And the general, impatient, indignant, threw his 
 arm around his friend's shoulder. "They know 
 nothing, doctors," he growled. "You will outlive 
 me. It is all villainy, such talk. Come, then, Ales- 
 sandro, and see if Pietro can stick on Coq." 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 FOR ALWAYS 
 
 CLAIRE listened with serious calm eyes as her 
 son told his story when he came home on the 
 day of the new arrival at the castle. It was strange 
 to have her boy the playmate of the children of a 
 noble marquis and of the seigneur himself. A pang 
 came with the thought, for it seemed to separate 
 the little lad from her. But the grandmother had 
 said always, and the mother believed it, that the 
 child would not grow up and live and die placidly 
 in Vieques as had his ancestors. There was a wider 
 destiny before him; had not the hand of Napoleon 
 himself laid that destiny on his baby shoulder ? So, 
 like plenty of other mothers, Claire put down the 
 selfishness of a longing to keep her own child, and 
 for the child's sake walked a little way with him 
 on the road which was to lead him from her. 
 
 "The great gentleman has come who once saved 
 our seigneur's life!" she repeated after Franqois. 
 
 §1 
 
92 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "And the seigneur is glad. Of course he is glad, my 
 Francois. And you ought to be glad, too, and 
 grateful to that gentleman because of all the good 
 things our seigneur has done for you and which 
 would not have happened, assuredly, if Monsieur 
 the Marquis had not saved him. You should do 
 everything that is possible for Monsieur the Mar- 
 quis to show your gratitude." 
 
 Frangois looked doubtful and a little depressed. 
 "But, my mother, I can not do anything for the 
 marquis that I can think of. He would not like me 
 to bring him vegetables, I think. And Jean Phil- 
 lippe or Pierre, or else the maids carry the water 
 for him ; I could not do that as I could for you. 
 There are so many people to do things that he would 
 not want me." 
 
 Claire considered; this view was true; yet she 
 wished her son to feel his part of the obligation to 
 the marquis and to discharge it. "It is true, Fran- 
 cois. Yet there may be something which you can 
 do for him, if it be only to bring him a book gladly. 
 Moreover, it is this which makes one's life happy 
 —doing things for others. Watch and be ready 
 to serve him with a good will when you may be- 
 cause of the thing which he did for our seigneur. 
 Also be a friend to the young monsieur, his son — 
 
FOR ALWAYS 93 
 
 you can do that, for you know well how to play and 
 to help other boys in playing." 
 
 Franqois nodded, and his exquisite smile, a smile 
 whose sweetness and pathos and brilliancy went 
 straight to the hearts of people, lighted his small 
 face. "I will do that, mother. It will please me to 
 do that." 
 
 Next morning the little brown figure which 
 trudged through the beech wood was brightened by 
 a large and vivid bouquet held in his two hands, a 
 point of color among the swinging shadows, blos- 
 soms from the new garden, growing now as only 
 Claire knew how to make things grow. 
 
 When the tap of Francois at the library door, 
 where one heard men's voices talking, had brought 
 the general's loud command of "Entrez," the little 
 brown figure and the large bunch of flowers came 
 in together and the boy marched straight to the 
 stately Italian. Snapping his heels together as his 
 mother had taught him he made a stiff deep bow, 
 and presented his nosegay. The marquis, a little 
 astonished at this attention, received it with grave 
 courtesy but without much cordiality; it seemed to 
 him rather an odd whim of Gourgaud's to have this 
 peasant child about as one of his own family. And 
 the gift of the flowers appeared possibly a bit pre- 
 
94 THE MARSHAL 
 
 sumptuous. So that Franqois' first effort at show- 
 ing his appreciation of the marquis' heroism was 
 not altogether successful. 
 
 But Franqois did not know that; to him all the 
 world was kindly, with different manners of kind- 
 liness. The manner of the marquis was graver than 
 other people's, perhaps — what then? The kindli- 
 ness was undoubtedly there below the gravity. And 
 it was this monsieur who had saved the life of the 
 seigneur; that, after all, was the whole matter. 
 Franqois wasted little time thinking of other peo- 
 ple's feeling toward himself. He was much too 
 busy with a joyful wonder of his own at the ever 
 new goodness of his world. To the marquis, who 
 hardly noticed him, he proceeded to constitute him- 
 self a shadow. 
 
 "We will walk to the village together, Alessan- 
 dro," the general decided, of a morning, in his sud- 
 den way, and shouted forthwith for "Moison! Ho 
 there, Moison ! The cloak and hat of monsieur the 
 marquis !" 
 
 But before Jean Phillippe had time to get to the 
 door, the small person in homespun had fled like a 
 rabbit and was back loaded with paraphernalia. He 
 worked as faithfully as ever with the general at the 
 great book, what times the general could spare now 
 
FOR ALWAYS , 95 
 
 to work, away from his friend; he played with his 
 might as always, yet there were many times when 
 he would squat at a distance behind the chair of the 
 visitor, motionless, while Alixe and Pietro tried 
 vainly to lure him away. At the first sign of a serv- 
 ice to be done for the marquis he was up and at it ; 
 always quicker, always more intelligent than the 
 footman. The marquis could not help seeing these 
 attentions and went through two or three stages of 
 feeling about it — ^bored, irritated, amused, flattered. 
 The lad trotted at his heels as unobtrusively as a 
 small dog and it was not in the marquis' nature — 
 a gentle nature, if proud and reserved — ^to resist 
 such determined devotion. So the little brown 
 shadow made its way finally into his slow friendli- 
 ness. 
 
 "You have thrown a charm over my boy Fran- 
 cois, Alessandro," the general said, well pleased. 
 And the marquis answered thoughtfully : 
 
 "It is a boy out of the common, I believe, Gas- 
 pard. At first I thought it a mistake that you 
 should raise a child of his class to the place you 
 have given him, but I see that you understand what 
 you are about. He is worthy of a good fate." 
 
 "I believe he is worthy of any fate," the general 
 said, "and I believe he will make his fate if he has 
 
96 THE MARSHAL 
 
 a chance, a good one — perhaps a great one. He 
 has uncommon stuff in him. I mean to give him 
 his chance." And with that there was a conversa- 
 tion as to boys between the two friends. 
 
 The day came, after two months of such renewals 
 of friendship when, on the next morning, the Mar- 
 quis Zappi was due to start on his long journey to 
 America. Out on the lawn, in the shadow of the 
 beech trees he sat and watched his son playing ball 
 with little Alixe. Then he was aware of Franqois 
 standing before him. The boy held something in 
 his closed hand, and with that he opened his fingers 
 and stretched it to the marquis. The marquis looked 
 inquiringly at tbe yellow metal. 
 
 "What is this?" he asked; he was prepared now 
 to be surprised by this boy about once in so often, 
 so he simply suspended judgment at a thing unex- 
 pected. 
 
 "It is for you. Monsieur the Marquis." Fran- 
 cois smiled radiantly and continued to present the 
 ten- franc piece. 
 
 The marquis, astounded, drew back with a shock 
 of indignation. Was this peasant child offering 
 him money? Frangois went on happily, convinced 
 that he was doing something worth while. 
 
 "But you may take it, Monsieur the Marquis; it 
 
FOR ALWAYS 97 
 
 is indeed for you. It is my own ; the seigneur gave 
 it to me on my birthday, and my father did not put 
 it with the savings, but said it was to be mine to 
 do with as I chose. I choose to give it to you. Mon- 
 sieur the Marquis. So that you may have plenty of 
 money — I know well what it is not to have enough 
 money. It is a bad thing. And it is convenient 
 when on a journey — ^money." He nodded his head, 
 as man to man. "So, as it is mine, I give this to 
 you." 
 
 The brown fist was outstretched, the gold piece 
 glittering in it, and still the marquis stared speech- 
 less. Never in his life had any one presumed to 
 offer him money. He looked up at the face of the 
 little peasant; it shone with peace and good will; 
 he put out his hand and took the gold piece and 
 looked at it a long minute, and drew a leather case 
 from his pocket and placed it within carefully, and 
 put it away. 
 
 "Thank you, Frangois," said the marquis. And 
 then he considered again the shining little face. 
 "Why have you done this, Franqois?" he asked. 
 "Why do you always — do so much for me ?" 
 
 "Monsieur the Marquis," Franqois spoke eagerly, 
 "it is not much I have done before, only little 
 things. This, I know it, is much, for it is a large 
 
98 THE MARSHAL 
 
 sum of money and may be a great help to you. I 
 am glad of that. Monsieur the Marquis." By now 
 Frangois was squatting cross-legged at the feet of 
 the marquis. "I do it because you did that thing." 
 
 Then the marquis was entirely bewildered. "Did 
 that thing? What do you mean, Franqois?" 
 
 "That thing in Russia, for my seigneur. When 
 you saved the life of my seigneur." 
 
 "Oh," said the marquis and stared down at the 
 boy anxiously explaining. 
 
 "I have been afraid that I could never show you 
 how I thanked you for the life of my seigneur. I 
 am sorry that my seigneur sabered you afterward, 
 but that was a mistake. Monsieur the Marquis, you 
 understand that it was a mistake?" 
 
 "Quite," said Monsieur the Marquis. 
 
 "You have forgiven my seigneur?" Francois de- 
 manded. 
 
 "There was nothing to forgive, Francois. It 
 was, as you point out, a mistake." 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur the Marquis." The heels of 
 Frangois came down on the sod with a whack of 
 satisfaction as he sprang to his feet. "So it is all 
 arranged. Only that even the gold is not enough. 
 But I will do more. I will be a friend of Pietro. 
 That will please you, will it not?" 
 
FOR ALWAYS 99 
 
 The marquis was silent. "But I know that. It 
 
 * 
 
 is a good thing to be friends — with me. Any boy 
 in the village of Vieques would be glad to be my 
 friend, you know, Monsieur the Marquis. So it 
 will be a good thing for Pietro. He is six months 
 younger than I; I can teach him how to climb and 
 how to fight and how to take care of himself. And 
 I will, because of that thing you did. Because, too, 
 I think well of Pietro and besides because of your 
 kindness to me." 
 
 "My kindness to you ?" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur the Marquis — because you have 
 been so kind to me." 
 
 And the marquis, in the silence of his soul, was 
 ashamed. 
 
 The next day he went. As they stood, gathered 
 in the big carved doorway, he told them all good-by 
 and lifted his boy and held him without a word. As 
 he set him down he turned toward the carriage, but 
 in a flash he turned back as if by a sudden inspira- 
 tion, and laid a hand on little Fran9ois' shoulder. 
 
 "You will remember that you promised to be a 
 friend to Pietro, Francois?" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur the Marquis," the child answered 
 gravely. 
 
 The marquis caught Pietro's hand and put it into 
 
loo THE MARSHAL 
 
 \- 
 
 Frsm^ois' and held the two little hands clasped so 
 together in his own. "Always ?" he demanded. 
 
 "Always," Frangois repeated quietly, and those 
 who heard the word spoken believed it. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE CASTLE CHILDREN 
 
 IMPERCEPTIBLY to the child, the life of 
 Francois swept into a changing channel. More 
 and more he belonged to the general, the castle; 
 less and less, though he still lived with them and 
 was faithful to them, did he belong to his father 
 and mother and the village life. After a few months 
 an event came which separated him from the old 
 order sharply. 
 
 There was a farm in the Valley Delesmontes 
 — five miles it was from Vieques — which was a de- 
 pendence of the seigneury; for centuries the same 
 family had held it, and it was considered the richest 
 holding for a peasant in that part of the world. Just 
 now the family all at once came to an end. It was 
 necessary to find new tenants, and the general of- 
 fered the place to Le Frangois and La Claire. Even 
 in their best days they had not been so prosperous as 
 this would make them. It was a large farm of four 
 
 lOI 
 
I02 THE MARSHAL 
 
 hundred acres, with a big house, with gardens and 
 farm buildings and many horses and cattle — a rich 
 great place for them and for their children. There 
 could be no question as to accepting the offer. They 
 could have their family together once more and 
 give them advantages beyond what had ever been 
 planned ; it was a new start in life. And Le Fran- 
 cois, having learned his lesson so bitterly, could be 
 trusted now to make the most of it. It was almost 
 a miracle to happen in old, quiet, little Vieques, 
 where changes came mostly by slow years, not often 
 by thunderclaps. Yet beautiful as it was, there 
 were drawbacks. One must leave one's village 
 where one's self and the grandfathers and the great- 
 grandfathers and before that others, had been born 
 and buried; one must leave one's old house down 
 the street there, and the dream of buying it back, 
 which had kept despair out of these months of pov- 
 erty ; moreover, what about Franqois ? 
 
 La Claire and Le Francois, sitting stiffly on the 
 fine chairs in the general's library, where they had 
 been brought to hear the great news, asked that 
 question suddenly in a breath. The general glow- 
 ered at them from deep eyes. 
 
 "There is the screw." He fired the words at 
 them like hot shot and La Claire shrank a little. 
 
THE CASTLE CHILDREN 103 
 
 "There's always a screw somewhere in every good 
 thing. This time it's the boy." 
 
 There was a silence. Claire trembled. "The boy 
 is your boy," the seigneur of the castle went on, 
 qujetly enough, and then in a flash brought his fist 
 down on the table with a roar. "But, by heaven, 
 he's my boy, too, now. He's a miracle of a boy and 
 I love him like a son and I want to give him such 
 a chance in life as I would have given had he been 
 born my son. Are you going to stand in the way 
 of that?" 
 
 Like bullets the words struck La Claire; she saw 
 the way they led, and she rebelled at fate. It was 
 cruel, now when they were able again to do all for 
 the child which they had planned, to take the child 
 away; yet that very ability to do for him was the 
 gift of the man who wanted him. What could she 
 say? 
 
 "It will go hard with the lad to give us up," she 
 brought out softly. 
 
 "He won't give you up ; I should not respect him 
 if he gave you up," the general thundered, and the 
 two peasants breathed more freely. This great 
 good fortune was not, after all, the price of their 
 son. 
 
 By degrees the three came to an understanding. 
 
I04 THE MARSHAL 
 
 And the peasant parents, seeing how the general, as 
 he had said, did indeed love their boy; seeing also 
 that he had a power beyond theirs to develop him ; 
 seeing that advantages and a career were waiting 
 for little Francois if their love for him should be 
 unselfish ; seeing these things, the father and mother 
 agreed to the general's plan. A tutor was to be en- 
 gaged for the three children; Francois was to live 
 at the castle as if — it should be explained to him — 
 he were going away to school, and every Friday he 
 was to walk to the Ferme du Vol — ^the Valley Farm 
 — ^and stay with his people until Sunday afternoon. 
 So, without realizing the change, the boy who 
 had been the child of a peasant cabin became the 
 child of the castle, and while entirely loyal to the 
 home he still held to be his own, he learned ways 
 of living and breathed in ideas which could not 
 have come to him at the farm. The Fridays were 
 eagerly looked forward to, and it was excitement 
 and rapture to see and share in the new prosperity 
 — ^the large stone house of a story and a half, 
 roofed with immense oak shingles richly dark with 
 age ; the farm buildings clustered about it, connected 
 with stone walls forming a large court; the big 
 granary, standing aside on a hill slope ; and the mul- 
 titude of live stock — the seventy cows, the eight 
 
THE CASTLE CHILDREN 103 
 
 heavy work horses of the country, the six horses 
 which pertained to the farmer for driving and rid- 
 ing, and the two pairs of mild-eyed oxen, used for 
 breaking the earth. The father and mother reigned 
 busily and happily over all this plenty, and all the 
 brothers and sisters were together once more around 
 them and the white-capped grandmother smiled a 
 benediction from her big chintz chair. Such a 
 greeting as Francois, her especial boy, got from the 
 grandmother on a Friday evening after his long 
 walk! 
 
 This new order of things was well settled before 
 six months had passed after the going of the Mar- 
 quis Zappi. Frangois was not now allowed to fill 
 the place of secretary except in an incidental way. 
 The new tutor, a serious young man whom the chil- 
 dren astonished and worried, copied the pages of 
 the history of the Emperor. It was thought impor- 
 tant now that Francois should work at his studies. 
 There was a rumor already that he and Pietro might 
 go together, perhaps, in a year more, to a military 
 school — in fact, to Saint-Cyr itself if the marquis 
 thought well of the place when he came home. And 
 then in three or four months more something hap- 
 pened. 
 
 Franqois was alone with the general when the 
 
io6 THE MARSHAL 
 
 letter came; Marcelle, the younger footman, had 
 been sent to the mayor's in the village for the mail, 
 which came by post to Delesmontes and was brought 
 on by foot messengers to Vieques, to the mayor, 
 who distributed it. Francois' eyes were on his 
 seigneur's face as he read the letter and the boy 
 saw the blood rush through the weather-hardened 
 skin in a brown-red flood, and then fade out, leav- 
 ing it gray. The boy had never seen the general 
 look so. With that, the big arms were thrown out 
 on the table and the big grizzled head fell into 
 them. That cut to Fran9ois' soul — ^his seigneur 
 was in trouble. And before he knew it his childish 
 arm was around the big neck and his cheek against 
 the seigneur's. And the seigneur put up his hand 
 and pressed the little face closer. For long minutes 
 not a word was said and then the general's deep 
 voice spoke, more gently than Frangois had ever 
 heard it. 
 
 "It is a good thing to have a son, my Frangois," 
 he said. 
 
 Then he lifted his head and told the boy how the 
 friend whom he had found lately, after so many 
 years of separation, had gone away not to come back 
 in this life, and how Pietro was fatherless. Fran- 
 cois, holding tightly with both fists to the general's 
 
THE CASTLE CHILDREN 107 
 
 hand, listened wide-eyed, struck to the heart. It 
 was the first time death had come near, and the face 
 of it was grim. Yet instantly he rallied, because he 
 felt that his seigneur needed him. 
 
 "But he had a brave life, my seigneur — it is the 
 best thing that there is. My mother said so. My 
 mother told me that we shall smile later, when we 
 are with the good God, to think that we ever 
 feared death on this earth. For she says one spends 
 a long time with the good God later, and all one's 
 dear friends come, and it is pleasant and it is for 
 a long, long time, while here it is, after all, quite 
 short. Is not that true, my seigneur? My mother 
 said it." 
 
 But all the general answered was to pat his head 
 and say once more, "It is a good thing to have a son, 
 my Frangois." 
 
 Big little Pietro had to be told what had hap- 
 pened and how the general was now to be a father 
 to him as best he might, and Alixe and Franqois 
 would be his sister and brother. He took the blow 
 dumbly and went about his studies next morning, 
 but for many days he could not play, and only Fran- 
 9ois could make him speak. He clung to the other 
 boy, and seemed to find his best comfort in the 
 friendship which it had been his father's parting 
 
io8 THE MARSHAL 
 
 inspiration to assure for him. He was handsome — 
 extraordinarily handsome — ^and a lovable good 
 child, but slow in initiative where Fran9ois was 
 ready, shy where Francois was friends with all the 
 world, steady-going where the peasant boy was bril- 
 liant. Between the two, of such contrasting types, 
 was an unspoken bond from the first, and at this 
 age it seemed to be the little peasant who had every- 
 thing to give. Smaller physically, weaker in muscle 
 than the big-boned son of North Italy, he yet took 
 quite naturally an attitude of protection and guid- 
 ance, and Pietro accepted it without hesitation. 
 There was no jealousy between them. Franqois 
 taught the other, who had grown up petted but un- 
 trained in the lonely castle of his ancestors, all that 
 he knew of boyish skill and strength, and was en- 
 chanted when his pupil went beyond him, as hap- 
 pened where brute force counted. Yet Frangois 
 was the acknowledged leader. 
 
 "Father," Alixe complained, "Pietro will not try 
 to knock Frangois down. Pietro is big, yet it is 
 always Francois who comes up behind him and 
 throws him on the grass, and Pietro only smiles and 
 gets up. Make Pietro be brave and quick as Fran- 
 cois is, father." 
 
 "Either of my boys is brave enough for you, who 
 
THE CASTLE CHILDREN 109 
 
 are only a girl," the general growled, and put an 
 arm around her and kissed her brown head. 
 
 And Alixe pushed away haughtily. "That is not 
 a way to talk before boys. They might not under- 
 stand how a girl is worth six boys, and it is you who 
 said it. Besides, I can ride, can I not, father? No- 
 body has jumped Coq over the hedge by the far 
 field but just me — Alixe." And the boys nodded 
 their dark heads and agreed, and Pietro added : 
 
 "She can run faster than I, though my legs are 
 so long." And he smiled at her in his sleepy fash- 
 ion, honest, admiring, shy. 
 
 Things went on in this way for two years or 
 more, and the three studied together under the tutor, 
 and rode Coq in the park, and sometimes went to- 
 gether of a Friday afternoon to the Valley Farm 
 and spent a two-days there never to be forgotten. 
 They were royal guests to Le Frangois and La 
 Claire, and the wholesome simple things done to 
 amuse them were endless; the farm was theirs to 
 play with for that week-end. First, on coming, 
 there was a fine lunch; gigot — a leg of lamb — which 
 one gave to princes, with salad and bread and 
 wine and much besides. The grandmother told 
 them stories, the father took them driving on hay 
 wagons; the mother showed them how to milk, to 
 
no THE MARSHAL 
 
 shell peas and other occult accomplishments. The 
 children were ready to drop everything and do any- 
 thing with them at any moment. It was like a glori- 
 fied doll's house built for the little visitors. And 
 according to the season they gathered fruits — rasp- 
 berries, apples, whatever grew. The Ferme du Val 
 was a fairy-land of pleasure. 
 
 Also the chateau at Vieques with three children 
 in it was no convent. That good boy Francois was 
 forever in mischief. For instance, there was the 
 winter's day when he got the general into difificulty 
 with the church by brutally snowballing the bishop. 
 
 "I thought it was Marcelle," Francois explained 
 penitently. "He pranced just as Marcelle prances. 
 And I was hiding behind the door with my ammu- 
 nition — fifteen snowballs, my Seigneur — big hard 
 ones. It was twilight, so I could not see plainly. I 
 fired straight, my Seigneur. I gave him one in the 
 necK. And one on the head, and two in the back, 
 and one or two in the stomach when he turned. I 
 only missed once. And also when he turned howl- 
 ing, with his hands out, I sent one into his mouth 
 before I saw. It is too bad it was the bishop, my 
 Seigneur; but why didn't he fight back?" 
 
 And the seigneur, scolding ferociously, had a 
 gleam in his eye which lessened Frangois' sense of 
 
THE CASTLE CHILDREN iii 
 
 wrong-doing. There was also an occasion when, 
 hearing the general give a long order to Marcelle 
 for the stablei, Francois went out hurriedly with a 
 stout cord and fastened it where Marcelle must go. 
 And Marcelle, the prancer, caught his foot and en- 
 tered the stable door like a comet and fell on Jules, 
 the groom, in his orbit — on Jules carrying a bucket 
 of water; and Jules and the water and Marcelle 
 ricochetted in a thousand-legged tangle into Coq's 
 stall ; where Coq, being angry, let forth a neigh and 
 a kick together, one of which broke the innocent 
 Jules' arm. So that Francois, stating the case to 
 the general, was condemned to do the groom's work 
 till the arm was cured. The days were not monot- 
 onous at the chateau of Vieques. They were not all 
 work and no play to the three very human children 
 living there. 
 
 So with work and play life rolled rapidly, and 
 suddenly life was all changed. A governess was 
 coming for Alixe, and Frangois and Pietro were 
 going away to the great military school of Saint- 
 Cyr, near Paris. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 • THE STRANGE BOY 
 
 TWO years slid past noiselessly, unnoticed, and 
 it was vacation time; it was August of the 
 year 1824. The Valley of the Jura was all afloat 
 on a sea of scarlet poppies. They grew higher than 
 the corn, and the wind tossed the waves of them 
 against the sunlight, and the sea of them glittered 
 silver, pricked with a million gold-red points; then 
 the wind tossed the thousand, thousand waves back 
 toward the sun, and the land-sea was shadowy, 
 streaked with flame unendingly. The little river — 
 the Cheulte — rushed down between the fields of gold 
 and scarlet in its immortal hurry, murmuring over 
 the stones. The old chateau of Vieques — the ruin 
 ■ — lay back behind the corn fields and smiled in hot 
 sunlight at the two thousandth ocean of color which 
 had washed the land up to its crumbling walls, since 
 the Roman governor piled the old gray stones. 
 
 A tall lad of fourteen, another boy, slighter, 
 quicker, darker, and a little girl of eleven in a short 
 
 112 
 
THE STRANGE BOY 113 
 
 white dress, wandered through the ruins, talking 
 earnestly now, silent now, filling the grim place with 
 easy laughter again. Alixe and Francois and Pietro 
 were growing up; the general already grumbled 
 words about kittens turning into cats, as he looked 
 at them. Yet the general was satisfied in his soul 
 with each one, at whatever age, and glad of each 
 day more of this long unconscious childhood in 
 which they held to one another as closely and 
 frankly as if they were real sister and brothers. 
 
 To-day was the first complete day of the vaca- 
 tion; for till now Frangois had been at the farm, 
 working hard with his father at the harvesting. 
 This morning he had come over to spend a week at 
 the chateau. And without arrangement, only be- 
 cause it was their oldest and most fascinating play- 
 ground, they had strolled along the steep hillside, 
 into the road that led to the pastures at the foot of 
 the mountain and then to the gate, barring out 
 wagons and cattle, the gate of the fence which en- 
 closed the old chateau. 
 
 The grass was green on the high mound under 
 which lay heaped the stones of the Roman tower, it 
 was long, and waved in the breeze; the ugliness of 
 the barbarism and cruelty of those days lay so 
 buried; on the right were the granaries where the 
 
114 THE MARSHAL 
 
 wicked governor had stored the grain wrung from 
 the country people; over the steep wall to the left 
 was the opening to the corridor which led, as all 
 the world of Vieques had known for centuries, to 
 the treasure-house; it was there that the phantom, 
 the great dog, appeared. The children told the old 
 story to one another; they rebuilt as they talked, in 
 the peace of the summer afternoon, the old war 
 castle ; they raised its long walls and placed its nar- 
 row windows and machicolated its roofs — in the 
 young minds a dream of the old place rose complete 
 under the new chestnut trees of only two or three 
 hundred years' standing. 
 
 "Just behind the great stone there," Alixe formu- 
 lated, "was the dog's bedroom. Of course, a great 
 monsieur like the dog had his own bedroom — ^yes, 
 and office, too — and maybe his dining-room." 
 
 And the joke was enough on that lazy day of va- 
 cation to set peals of light laughter ringing through 
 the ruins. Alixe stopped laughing suddenly. 
 
 "Who is that?" she demanded. Her eyes were 
 lifted to the hill rising behind the green mound, and 
 the glance of the others followed hers. A young 
 man, a boy, was coming lightly down the slope, and 
 something in his figure and movement made it im- 
 possible even at a distance that it should be any one 
 
THE STRANGE BOY 115 
 
 of the village. Strangers were not common in quiet 
 Vieques, and why should a stranger be coming over 
 the mountain? The children were silent as they 
 watched the figure drawing closer; it seemed as if an 
 event of importance was about to happen. Rapidly 
 the boy sprang down the mountainside; they could 
 see him plainly now ; he was two or three years older 
 than the boys of the chateau ; he was short, slender, 
 compact, with a thin aquiline face, with something 
 about him which the country-bred children did not 
 understand to be that subtle quality, presence. He 
 saw them, arid came forward, and his cap was off 
 quickly as he glanced at Alixe. But with a keen look 
 at the three, it was Francois to whom he spoke, 
 
 "Is this France ?" he asked. 
 
 "But yes, Monsieur," Franqois answered wonder- 
 ing — ^and in a moment he wondered more. The 
 strange boy, his cap flung from him, 'dropped on his 
 knees and kissed the grass that grew over the Ro- 
 man governor's foundations. With that he was 
 standing again, looking at them unashamed from his 
 quiet gray eyes. 
 
 "It is the first time I have touched the soil of 
 France since I was seven years old," he stated, not 
 as if to excuse his act, but as if exi^aining some- 
 thing historical. And was silent. 
 
ii6 THE MARSHAL 
 
 The children, going over this day's event many 
 times after, could never remember how it happened 
 that they had talked so much. The strange boy 
 talked very little; they could not recollect that he 
 asked questions, after his first startling question; 
 yet here was Alixe, the very spirited and proud little 
 Alixe, anxious to make him understand everything 
 of their own affairs. 
 
 "I am Alixe," she began — and stopped short, 
 seized with shyness. Was it courtesy to explain to 
 the young monsieur about her distinguished father? 
 Or was it bragging? She found herself suddenly 
 in an agony of confusion, for all of them were 
 laughing their quick young laughter at her brief 
 statement. Then the stranger made a low bow and 
 spoke in the gentlest friendly tones. 
 
 "It is enough. It is a charming name. Mademoi- 
 selle Alixe. I believe I shall now think it the most 
 charming name in France." 
 
 And Alixe, blushing furiously, yet felt a satisfac- 
 tory conviction that she had not been at all stupid. 
 
 "She has more of a name than that, however, 
 Monsieur," and Frangois stepped across the grass 
 and stood by the little girl, her knight, unconscious 
 of the part he played. "It is a very grand name, 
 the other one. For our seigneur, the father of 
 
THE STRANGE BOY 117 
 
 Alixe, is Monsieur the Baron Gaspard Gourgaud, a 
 general of Napoleon himself; he was indeed with 
 the Emperor at St. Helena." 
 
 Francois had no false modesty, no self-conscious- 
 ness; he felt that he had placed Alixe's standing 
 now in the best light possible. The strange boy felt 
 it, too, it seemed, for he started as Franqois spoke 
 of Napoleon; his reserved face brightened and his 
 cap was off and sweeping low as he bowed again 
 to Alixe more deeply. Frangois was delighted. It 
 was in him to enjoy dramatic effect, as it is in most 
 Frenchmen. He faced about to Pietro. 
 
 "This one. Monsieur," he went on, much taken 
 with himself as master of ceremonies, "is Monsieur 
 the Marquis Zappi of Italy. His father also fought 
 for the great captain." 
 
 The quiet strange boy interrupted swiftly. "I 
 know," he said. "Of the Italian corps under Prince 
 Eugene; also on the staff of Lannes. I know the 
 name well," and he had Pietro's hand in a firm 
 grasp and was looking into the lad's embarrassed 
 face with his dreamy keen eyes. 
 
 The children, surprised, were yet too young to 
 wonder much that a boy scarcely older than them- 
 selves should have the army of Napoleon at his 
 fingers' ends ; he gave them no time to think about it. 
 
ii8 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "One sees, without the names, that you are of the 
 noblesse," he said simply, embracing the three in 
 his sleepy glance. He turned to Fran9ois. "And 
 you. Monsieur the spokesman? You are also of a 
 great Bonapartist house ?" 
 
 Francois stood straight and slim; his well-knit 
 young body in his military dress was carried with 
 all the assurance of an aristocrat. He smiled his 
 brilliant exquisite smile into the older boy's face. 
 
 "Me — I am a peasant," he said cheerfully. "I 
 have no house." Thpn into the silence that fell he 
 spoke simply. "There are no officers of my fam- 
 ily, no battles where my name was known." The 
 controlled glance of the stranger rested on him 
 attentively. With that the look of Frangois changed 
 in a flash ; his eyes blazed as he threw out both hands 
 in a strong gesture. "It makes no difference," he 
 cried. "My life was consecrated from its start to 
 the service of the house of Bonaparte. It will 
 count ; I live because I believe that. I know surely 
 that I shall yet do a thing worth while for a Bona- 
 parte." 
 
 A curious vivid glance shot at the excited boy 
 from under the drooping lids of the newcomer. 
 "Monsieur," he said quietly, "I — " But no one 
 had time to hear the rest. Because Alixe had sud- 
 
THE STRANGE BOY 119 
 
 denly thrown her arm about Francois' neck, and 
 was crying out impetuous words. 
 
 "He is a peasant — yes. But he is also our brother, 
 Pietro's and mine, and no prince is better than 
 Francois — not one." 
 
 "Or half so good," Pietro put in with his slow 
 tones. 
 
 "You are likely right," the stranger agreed la- 
 conically. 
 
 And then without questions asked, in rapid eager 
 sentences, the three had told him how it was; how 
 Frangois, refusing to leave the cottage, was yet 
 the son of the castle ; how Pietro had come and had 
 stayed, how the boys were at school together; how 
 in the vacations they were still sister and brothers, 
 whether at the castle or the farm ; all this and much 
 more the three poured out to the silent lad who lis- 
 tened, who seemed to say almost nothing, yet man- 
 aged to make them feel at every moment that he 
 cared to hear what they said. With that they were 
 talking about the village of Vieques, and its an- 
 tiquity, and then of the old chateau; and one told 
 the legend of the treasure and of the guardian dog. 
 
 "Just over the wall there is the opening where 
 he appeared to old Pierre Tremblay," Franqois 
 pointed out. "And Pierre was half-witted ever 
 
I20 THE MARSHAL 
 
 after. I know, for I have seen him myself. He 
 mumbled." 
 
 "That is interesting." The stranger spoke with 
 more animation than he had shown before — he was, 
 after all, for all of his reserve, a boy. "I should 
 like an interview with that dog. I must at least see 
 his kennel. Over that wall ? I will climb the wall." 
 
 "But no," Frangois put in quickly. "It is unsafe 
 these last five years. I have climbed it, but not in 
 these last years. You can go around and get in by 
 another way and see the hole of the dog." 
 
 The older boy's eyes narrowed. "I think I should 
 prefer to climb the wall," he said. 
 
 Alixe spoke. "If Francois can not go it is im- 
 possible. He is the best climber of all the country, 
 are you not then, Frangois ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Frangois. 
 
 And Pietro echoed. "But yes. All the world 
 knows it." 
 
 "I think I should like to climb the wall," the 
 stranger repeated gently. 
 
 And he did. The others watching anxiously, he 
 crawled out on the uncertain pile ten feet in air. A 
 big stone crashed behind him ; he crawled on. Then, 
 "I see it," he cried, and waved a triumphant hand, 
 and with that there was a hoarse rumble of loosened 
 
THE STRANGE BOY 121 
 
 masonry, and down came the great blocks close to 
 his hands — he was slipping — ^he had jumped. And 
 as he jumped a heavy square of stone tumbled with 
 him and caught him, felled him, had him pinned 
 into the tumbling wall by his coat. And, above, the 
 wall swayed. Then, in the instant of time before 
 the catastrophe, Frangois had sprung like a cat into 
 the center of danger and loosened the coat and 
 pushed the other boy, violently reeling, across the 
 grass out of harm's way. 
 
 Alixe screamed once sharply. Franqois lay mo- 
 tionless on his face and the ^reat stones rained 
 around him. It was all over in a moment ; in a mo- 
 ment more a shout of joy rose from Pietro, for 
 Francois lifted his head and began crawling diffi- 
 cultly, with Pietro's help, out of the debris. There 
 was a cut on his cheek, a deep one, bleeding badly, 
 on the back of his hand; and bruises were dis- 
 tributed over him, but by a miracle he had come off 
 with his life and only so much the worse. No 
 sooner was Franqois on his feet than Alixe startled 
 them by turning on the innocent and surprised 
 Pietro in a perfect fury of scorn. 
 
 "He is not dead — ^but that is not your fault," she 
 threw at him. "You who love him so much ! You 
 let him go into that danger." 
 
122 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "But — but I didn't know he was going, Alixe," 
 stammered Pietro. "It was — so quick." 
 
 "Quick ? Yes, Francois was quick. Why weren't 
 you quick, too ? It is always Francois. Why don't 
 you do something brave once in a while? Why 
 don't you make people admire you, not always Fran- 
 cois?" 
 
 "I like people to admire Franqois," Pietro an- 
 swered sturdily. "I admire him, too." Then, his 
 shyness lost in eagerness to set the case right with 
 Alixe, he went on. "Francois always has a thing 
 done before I think of it. That is not my fault. I 
 believe I should not have been afraid to do that — ■ 
 but^Frangois did it." 
 
 "It is always so," said Alixe in deep disgust. 
 "Frangois always does it. If you would only prove 
 once that you have — courage." 
 
 And at that the stranger broke in, smiling his 
 faint smile. "Mademoiselle Alixe is severe," he 
 said gently. "No one can doubt the courage of a 
 Marquis Zappi." He faced with a quick movement 
 to Frangois, and his look changed. One would not 
 have thought that the controlled cold features could 
 so show warmth. "I have to thank you for my life. 
 Monsieur the peasant," he said, and held out his 
 hand. "Moreover, it is seldom that a prophecy is so 
 
THE STRANGE BOY 123 
 
 quickly fulfilled." They gazed at him, fascinated by 
 a dignity in him which seemed new. 
 
 He went on. "You said a few minutes ago that 
 you should one day do a thing worth while for a 
 Bonaparte. You have done it. You have saved my 
 life." 
 
 Bewildered, the children stared, reluctant to com- 
 prehend something which seemed out of possibility ; 
 Franqois' hand crept to his cap and he pulled it off 
 and stood bareheaded. 
 
 "Monsieur, who are you ?" he brought out. 
 
 The strange boy's vanishing smile brightened his 
 face a second. "I am Louis Bonaparte," he said 
 quietly. 
 
 The little court of three stood about the young 
 Prince, silent. And in a moment, in a few sentences, 
 he had told them how, the day before, he had been 
 seized with a hunger for the air of France, which 
 he had not breathed since, as a boy of seven, his 
 mother had escaped with him from Paris during the 
 Hundred Days. He told them how the desire to 
 stand on French soil had possessed him, till at last 
 he had run away from his tutor and had found the 
 path from his exiled home, the castle of Arenen- 
 berg, in the canton of Thurgovie, in Switzerland, 
 over the mountains into the Jura valley. 
 
124 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "It is imprudent," he finished the tale calmly. 
 "The government would turn on all its big engines 
 in an uproar to catch one schoolboy, if it was known. 
 But I had to do it." He threw back his head and 
 filled his lungs with a great breath. "The air of 
 France," he whispered in an ecstasy. The romantic 
 spirit of this boy always flashed out as a surprise 
 from beneath his calm self-contained exterior. 
 Then, in his usual quiet tones, "I am fortunate," he 
 said. "I have fallen into the hands of friends. 
 Mademoiselle Alixe — ^the pretty name" — and he 
 smiled his evanescent smile — "is almost of my 
 family because of her father ; Monsieur the peasant 
 has proved his loyalty with his life, and" — he turned 
 to the tall Pietrb — "a Bonaparte is safe with Mon- 
 sieur the Marquis Zappi." 
 
 "I am Pietro," stated the boy shyly. 
 
 The Prince looked at him, narrowing his eyes 
 again. Then "And I am Louis," he flashed back. 
 "It is a good thought. Why not leave out the titles 
 for this afternoon? We are all young — it is sum- 
 mer — it is a holiday. We have an ancient castle 
 and an adventure to play with ; what use have we for 
 titles? We shall never see one another again, it is 
 likely. So, shall we not be Alixe and Pietro and 
 Frangois and Louis, four children together for this 
 
" T om T /-»iiic Rnnanartp_'' he said, nuietlv. 
 
THE STRANGE BOY 125 
 
 one day of our friendship ?" And the others laughed 
 and agreed. 
 
 For two hours more they told stories and played 
 games through the soft old ruins of the savage old 
 stronghold, as light-heartedly, as carelessly as' if 
 there were no wars or intrigues or politics or plots 
 which had been and were to be close to the lives of 
 all of them. Till, as the red round sun went down 
 behind the mountain of the Rose, Franqois' quick 
 eye caught sight of a figure swinging rapidly down 
 the mountain road where the Prince had come. 
 
 "But look, Louis," he called from behind the rock 
 where he was preparing, as a robber baron, to swoop 
 down on Prince Louis convoying Alixe as an es- 
 caped nun to Pietro's monastery in another corner. 
 "Look, Louis ! Some one is coming whom I do not 
 know. Is it a danger for you ?" 
 
 And the boy Prince, suddenly grave, shaded his 
 eyes with his hand and gazed up the mountain. 
 Then his hand fell and he sighed. "The adventure 
 is over," he said. "I must go back to the Prince 
 business. It is Monsieur Lebas." 
 ! Monsieur Lebas, the tutor, arrived shortly in any- 
 thing but a playful humor. The boy's mother. 
 Queen Hortense, was in Rome, and he was re- 
 sponsible; he had been frightened to the verge of 
 
126 THE MARSHAL 
 
 madness by the Prince's escapade. It was, in fact, 
 as serious an escapade as one may think, or it might 
 have been. The movements of the Bonapartes were 
 watched at that time by the authorities of France 
 and all other countries as well with a closeness and 
 a jealousy out of proportion. Europe having been 
 turned upside down lately by that name, that name 
 was hedged out by barriers as if the combination of 
 letters in itself was a peril to a government. Louis 
 Napoleon at sixteen was twice removed from the 
 headship of his house ; the Duke of Reichstadt, son 
 of Napoleon I., was still living in Austria, and Louis' 
 own brother, the older son of King Louis and Hor- 
 tense, was with his father in Rome; so that this 
 runaway lad was not the heir to anything, even to 
 the pretensions of a dethroned and exiled family. 
 Yet he was a prince of the Bonapartes, and the 
 magic of the name and of the legend was about him. 
 It was a danger to France to have his footsteps on 
 her soil, so the laws decreed ; it would mean for him 
 prison and perhaps death if he were captured in 
 France. No wonder poor Monsieur Lebas was 
 frightened almost to extinction. 
 
 The playmates were separated swiftly. Monsieur 
 Lebas refused with something like borror the eager 
 suggestion of the children that he; and his charge 
 
THE STRANGE BOY 127 
 
 should spend the night at the chateau. The Prince 
 must be gotten off French ground without a mo- 
 ment's delay; Fritz Rickenbach, the steward of 
 Arenenberg, was waiting for them with a carriage 
 over the mountain, to race them back to Switzer- 
 land ; it was through Fritz indeed, and a discussion 
 of the Prince with him as to distances and direc- 
 tions, that the distracted tutor had known how to 
 follow his quarry. 
 
 So the three-hours' friends were mercilessly torn 
 apart, and the children of the chateau came home in 
 the twilight stirred, excited, awed, with a story for 
 the seigneur of a wandering prince and a crumbling 
 wall; of a midsummer afternoon's dream; of a 
 frightened tutor and a quick sharp parting; a story 
 which the seigneur found it hard to believe. He 
 made each one of them tell the tale. Frangois fin- 
 ished the last. 
 
 "And Louis would have come back with us to the 
 chateau, for he wanted to see the general who had 
 been one of his uncle's family — he said that. Mon- 
 sieur the Seigneur. But Monsieur Lebas would not 
 hear of it, and Louis must do as he said, he told us. 
 But at the end Louis took each of our hands — and 
 he kissed Alixe's hand — and he said that he would 
 never forget us or this afternoon in the old chateau 
 
128 THE MARSHAL 
 
 of Vieques. And I believe it, my Seigneur, for 
 there is something about him which makes one be- 
 lieve he will remember — that Louis." 
 
 "Louis, Louis!" the general growled in repetition, 
 staring sternly at the slim figure which faced him. 
 "You speak that name very glibly. Do you happen 
 to remember, Franqois, that the lad whom you call 
 Louis so easily may one day be Emperor of 
 France ?" 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE PROMISE 
 
 VTI/fON DIEU!" said the general. 
 u. rJ. It was six years later. At the new chateau 
 not a blade of grass seemed changed. The general 
 stood in the midst of close-cropped millions of 
 blades of grass as he stopped short on the sloping 
 lawn which led down to the white stone steps which 
 led to the sunken garden. At each side of the high- 
 est step lifted a carved stone vase, blazing in the 
 September afternoon with scarlet geraniums, and 
 garlanded with vines. At the foot of the steps stood 
 two more vases, and at each side of the graveled 
 path, ribboned with a long flower-bed, at even in- 
 tervals of thirty feet, another stately pair of them — 
 the gray stiff vases spilling intoxicating brightness 
 of red flowers. They led the eye down a line till, a 
 hundred yards away, the line broke into a circle 
 where a sun-dial set on a fantastic stone figure of a 
 satyr marked the center of a grass jplot. Massive 
 stone seats held up by carved crouching griffins 
 faced each other across the sun-dial ; on one of these, 
 
 129 
 
I30 THE MARSHAL 
 
 in the sunny stillness of the garden, sat a girl and a 
 young man. Alixe, in her riding-habit, with a 
 feather in her hat, and gauntleted gloves on her 
 hands, was so lovely as to be startling. She looked 
 at the ground, half shy, half laughing, and beat the 
 grass with her riding-whip. Franqois was leaning 
 toward her and talking, and the general, coming 
 slowly down the lawn, felt a flood of pride rise in 
 him as he looked at this successful picture of a boy 
 which he had done so much to fashion. The two 
 had been riding together, and Franqois appeared, 
 as most men do, at his best in his riding clothes. 
 With that, as the general marched slowly down the 
 velvet slope, unseen by them, regarding them — ^his 
 girl and his boy, this happy sister and brother — with 
 that the brother lifted the sister's hand and, bending 
 over it, kissed it slowly, in a manner unmistakably 
 unbrotherly. 
 
 "Mon Dieu!" gasped the general, and turned on 
 his heel and marched back to his library. 
 
 All that afternoon he stayed shut up in the library. 
 At dinner he was taciturn. 
 
 "Well then, father," Alixe said at last, after the 
 two had tried every subject in vain to make him 
 talk. "It will be necessary now to buy all the berries 
 that are grown for ten miles around." 
 
THE PROMISE 131 
 
 "Berries?" growled the general, bewildered. 
 
 "Surely." 
 
 "Why berries ?" ferociously. 
 
 Alixe looked up at him innocently. "Isn't it ber- 
 ries which big bears live on ? Or will you eat us, my 
 father, when you have bitten our heads off and torn 
 us to pieces ?" 
 
 And the general, when he had been betrayed into 
 a laugh, sighed deeply and got up from his chair, 
 dinner not being over, and stalked back to his 
 library. Never had such a thing happened. 
 
 "What is it?" Alixe asked of Frangois. "He is 
 not ill — he told us that. Have you done something, 
 you wicked sinful boy, to trouble him?" 
 
 Frangois shook his head thoughtfully. "I can not 
 think of anything," he said, and his eyes met hers 
 truthfully. "But we shall know soon. He is as 
 frank as a child ; he can not keep a grievance from 
 the people he loves." 
 
 Which was a true judgment, for the next morning 
 the general sent for Francois to come to him in the 
 library. A letter had been brought a short time be- 
 fore and was lying open on the table by his hand. 
 
 "Francois," began the general in his deep abrupt 
 tones, "I am in trouble. Will you help me?" 
 
 "Yes, my Seigneur," said Franqois quickly. 
 
132 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "If it means a sacrifice to yourself?" 
 
 "Yes, my Seigneur," Frangois answered. 
 
 "We shall see." The general's strong lips were 
 set and he said nothing more for a moment, but 
 gazed thoughtfully at the letter which lay under his 
 big outspread fingers. At length, "You remember 
 Pietro's father, the Marquis Zappi ?" he demanded. 
 
 "Surely, my Seigneur." 
 
 "You remember the story I once told you, how he 
 saved my life in Russia?" 
 
 "I have never forgotten it." 
 
 "You realize that he was dearer to me than any 
 man on earth ?" 
 
 "I have always believed it so," said Francois. 
 
 "Good," growled the general. "You will bear 
 that in mind. I wish to tell you now of an arrange- 
 ment — a hope which the Marquis Zappi and I had 
 formed together. It was to be the crown of our 
 friendship and its perpetuation ; it was to have been 
 our happiness together; it would be — it will be, if 
 all goes well, the happiest thing which could come 
 to my life, now that he is gone. Would you break 
 that hope and take that happiness from me ?" 
 
 Franqois, startled, caught a quick breath. "My 
 Seigneur! You should not ask. You know I would 
 give my own happiness for yours." 
 
THE PROMISE 133 
 
 The general glared at him, frowning. "We shall 
 see," he said again, and then — suddenly as a shot 
 from a cannon — "Does Alixe love you, Frangois ?" 
 1 There was no mistaking what he meant, and 
 Franqois did not evade it. A flame of scarlet crept 
 in a swift diagonal across the warm brown of his 
 boyish cheeks, but his clear eyes met the general's 
 searching look frankly. He hesitated a moment. 
 
 "I — I think not, my Seigneur," he answered in a 
 low voice. 
 
 The general drew in an enormous sigh of relief. 
 "Thank God," he said devoutly, and then put out 
 his hand and laid hold of Frangois' strong lean 
 fingers. "My Frangois, you are dear as my own 
 son; you know it. You are next to Alixe — be- 
 fore Pietro — ah, yes, much before Pietro. You 
 will understand it is not from any lack of affection 
 that I put him before you in this." 
 
 Frangois, high-strung, deeply stirred, felt his hand 
 throb suddenly in the general's, and the general felt 
 it, too. 
 
 "I am hurting you," the deep voice said — and 
 only one or two people in the world had heard that 
 voice so full of tenderness. "I am hurting my son. 
 But listen, Frangois. It was the dearest wish of 
 Pietro's father — it has been my dearest wish for 
 
134 THE MARSHAL 
 
 years — that Alixe and Pietro should one day be 
 married. It is that which would be the crown of a 
 friendship forged in the fires of battle-fields, tem- 
 pered in the freezing starving snow fields of Russia, 
 finished — I hope never finished in all eternity." 
 
 The general's great frame was shaking; a silence 
 cut across his speech. He went on. 
 
 "Such a marriage would carry on ourselves, our 
 friendship, and keep it a living thing on the earth 
 long after we had left. That thought is thrilling to 
 me ; it is my greatest wish. Do you see now why I 
 was troubled when yesterday I saw you, in the gar- 
 den, kiss Alixe's hand ? I was afraid the child had 
 given her heart to you, and that my dream, Alessan- 
 dro's and mine" — he spoke this as if to himself — 
 "might never be realized." 
 
 Francois, his head bent, his eyes on the general's 
 hand which held his, answered very quietly. "I 
 see," he said. 
 
 "I forgot," the general went on, almost as if he 
 were alone and were talking aloud to himself. "I 
 forgot they were not real brother and sister. It was 
 mad of me. Such a beauty as my Alixe^— such a 
 wonderful lad as my Frangois ! Yet I did not dream 
 of the change till yesterday. I have gone through 
 much since then, but, thank God, thank the good 
 
THE PROMISE 135 
 
 God, it is not too late. She does not love him. It 
 has not gone further than what I saw, Franqois?" 
 He fired the words at the young fellow in his natural 
 manner again. "You have not put ideas into her 
 head more than what I saw?" 
 
 "No, my Seigneur." The voice was without in- 
 flection; the look was still on the big hand which 
 held his own fast. 
 
 "You would not take her from Pietro, who, I am 
 sure, loves her?" 
 
 Francois looked up sharply, but the general did 
 not notice. He spoke slowly. "I promised Pietro's 
 father" — the boy seemed to be out of breath — "to be 
 Pietro's friend — always," he said. 
 
 The general smiled then and let the fingers go, 
 and turned to the letter on the table before him. 
 "Good!" he said. "You are always what I wish, 
 Fran9ois," and it was quite evident that the load 
 was off his mind. "I am contented that no harm 
 has been done to either of my children. As for you, 
 however, you are twenty. You are full of ambition 
 and soldier-craft and politics and fighting — ^there is 
 small place left for love in such a boiling kettle of 
 fish as you. If my girl has touched your heart a 
 bit, as it looked yesterday," — and the general 
 chuckled gently — "well, you are twenty — ^the wound 
 
136 THE MARSHAL 
 
 will heal." He slapped the letter on the tabic. "I 
 must now have a long talk with you on an interest- 
 ing subject — yourself." 
 
 The general was by this in high good humor. A 
 spasm caught the face of the boy and left it pale, 
 but the general, busy at putting on his spectacles, did 
 not see. When he turned to look at him Franqois 
 was as usual. 
 
CHAPTER XlVi 
 
 WITH ALL MY SOUL 
 
 THE general swung around to the lad. "Fran- 
 cois, this letter is about you." He tapped the 
 rustling paper. "It is an opening, I believe, into the 
 sort of life which you have desired, a life of action 
 and of danger." 
 
 "It is what I wish," broke in Franqois eagerly. 
 
 "I know it," the general spoke approvingly. "But 
 before we discuss it I want to tell you, my Franqois, 
 that I am not only glad for your sake, but proud for 
 my own sake, to send you, my adopted son, where 
 you will have an opening for distinction. You know 
 that I am satisfied with you — you do not know how 
 deeply. Ten years ago, Franqois, I found you a 
 little peasant lad in the village ; it did not take long 
 to see that you had a character out of the common. 
 If I had left you where you belonged you would 
 still have been out of the common, you would still 
 have lifted yourself. But circumstances would not 
 have allowed you very full play, and it seemed to me 
 
 U7 
 
138 THE MARSHAL 
 
 you deserved full play. I loved you the more for re- 
 fusing to come to me ; that showed the stuff in you— . 
 loyalty — self-sacrifice. But I have managed to out- 
 wit you about that fairly well, eh, mon petit? I 
 have given you your chance in spite of yourself. 
 And you have taken it — mon Dieu! You have made 
 the most of your chance! 
 
 "When you graduated two years ago at the top of 
 the school, when Pietro left us and went off to his 
 castle in Italy and you came back to me here as fine a 
 young gentleman as any duke's son, I said to myself 
 that I had done well. Somewhere, from that re- 
 markable mother of yours, I believe, you — a peasant 
 — ^have got the simplicity and the unconsciousness 
 that are the 6nest touches of the finest breeding. I 
 am very proud of you, Franqois. I was proud 
 when, just after you graduated, the leaders of the 
 Bonapartist faction in France came to this chateau 
 for a secret convention and I could present you to 
 them as my adopted child, as my collaborator in the 
 new book, our military history of the Austerlitz 
 campaign — ^that had a good sound for a lad of 
 eighteen. And, name-of-a-dog! you held up your 
 end — you could talk to them like a soldier and a 
 statesman. Mon Dieu, yes ! 
 
 "And then, when they wrote and suggested send- 
 
WITH ALL MY SOUL 139 
 
 ing you as ambassador on the secret mission to the 
 Duke of Reichstadt last year, I almost burst with 
 pride to think how well you were fitted for it ; fitted 
 to talk with princes, equipped with the knowledge 
 and the statecraft to handle a delicate political situ- 
 ation. It is no easy thing to find such an ambassa-- 
 dor, for such a mission — a man not marked or 
 known, yet with the subtle and strong qualities 
 which make a man marked. You, with your youth 
 and peasant name and air of a young noble, filled 
 the difficult want. You did it well and won laurels 
 frorti critical old diplomatists. 
 
 "I have been worrying a bit since to have kept 
 you here chained to me and the writing of a history, 
 when you ought to be at the job of making history. 
 Yet you are only twenty. Time has not pressed, so 
 far. And moreover, I await a revolution when men 
 such as you will be needed ; the Bonapartist yeast is 
 working under the surface of all the country; the 
 time will come when a single crashing blow perhaps 
 will shake France and place one of the Emperor's 
 name on the Emperor's throne. And at that time 
 you, Monsieur, must be ready to put your strength 
 into that blow. You and I have faith, my son, in 
 that accolade of the Emperor of your infancy ; you 
 and I believe that, as he said, you may be one day 
 
I40 THE MARSHAL 
 
 'a Marshal of France under another Bonapftrte.' It 
 is for you to fulfil that prophecy." 
 
 The general, his big hands on his big l^nees, stared 
 at the boy with burning eyes, stirred by his own 
 words into a true French access of enthusiasm. But 
 the boy's eyes did not meet his as usual with the 
 flame of whole-hearted response which he loved; 
 yet the general, carried away by his own generous 
 feelings, was not dissatisfied. This was his boy; 
 what he did was right. He drew in a great breath 
 and let It out in a sigh of large contentment. 
 
 "I have talked you to extinction, Franqois," he 
 growled. "And in all my words I have not man- 
 aged to tell you what it is that I am talking about." 
 He tapped the letter again which lay under his hand. 
 "Pietro wants you to come to him as his secretary." 
 
 Francois' large eyes lifted to the general's face, 
 inquiring, startled, childlike. "Pietro!" he said 
 slowly. "I had not thought of that." 
 
 "Yet you knew that Pietro was heart and soul in 
 the plots of the Italian patriots ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But you had not thought of going to help him 
 fight?" 
 
 "No, my Seigneur. I had thought only of the 
 fight for which I must be ready here." 
 
WITH ALL MY SOUL 141 
 
 "This Italian business will be good practise," said 
 the general, as a man of to-day might speak of a 
 tennis tournament. "And you and Pietro will be en- 
 chanted to be together again." 
 
 Frangois smiled, and something in the smile 
 wrung the general's heart. 
 
 "Francois, you are not going to be unhappy about 
 little Alixe?" 
 
 Quickly Francois threw back, as if he had not 
 heard the question: "My Seigneur, I will go to 
 Pietro ; it will be the best thing possible — action and 
 training, and good old Pietro for a comrade. My 
 Seigneur, may I go to-morrow ?" 
 
 "To-morrow!" The general was startled now. 
 "A thousand thunders, but you are a sudden lad! 
 Yet it will be no harder to give you up to-morrow 
 than it would be next month. Yes, to-morrow, then, 
 let it be." 
 
 Franqois stood up, slim, young, alert and steady, 
 yet somehow not as the boy who had come in to the 
 general an hour before; more, perhaps, as a man 
 who had been through a battle and come out very 
 tired, with the noise of the fighting in his ears. 
 
 "I will go to the farm to-night, to my mother and 
 my father. And this afternoon I will ride with 
 Alixe, if you do not want me for the book, my 
 
142 THE MARSHAL 
 
 Seigneur — and if she will go. May I ask you not to 
 tell Alixe of this — ^to leave it to me to tell her?" 
 
 "Yes," agreed the general doubtfully. "But you 
 will be careful not to — upset her, Franqois ?" 
 
 "I will be careful." 
 
 "And — and you will do what you can to help 
 Pietro, will you not, my son?" 
 
 A quick contraction twisted Francois' sensitive 
 mouth and was gone, but this time the general saw. 
 "You may trust me, my Seigneur," the boy said, and 
 moved to the door ; but the general called to him as 
 his hand touched the latch. 
 
 "Frangois !" 
 
 "Yes, my Seigneur." He faced about, steady and 
 grave, and stood holding the door. 
 
 "Francois, my son — I have not hurt you — ^very 
 much? You do not love Alixe — deeply? Do you 
 love her, Franqois?" 
 
 There was a shock of stillness in the old dim 
 library. Through the window — ^where the children's 
 shouts had come in ten years before to the marquis 
 and the general — one heard now in the quiet the sud- 
 den staccato of a late cricket. The general, breath- 
 ing anxiously, looked at Francois, Franqois stand- 
 ing like a statue. The general repeated his question 
 softly, breathlessly. "Do you love her, Franqois?" 
 
WITH ALL MY SOUL 143 
 
 With that the great eyes blazed and the whole 
 face of the boy lighted as if a fire had flamed inside 
 a lantern. He threw back his head. 
 
 "With all my soul," he said. "And forever." 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 I SAID IT, AND I WILL 
 
 A RUSHING mountain stream — white-veiled in 
 . the falling, black-brown in the foam-flecked 
 pools — ^tumbled, splashed, brawled down the moun- 
 tain; the mountain hung over, shadowy; banks of 
 fern held the rampant brook in chains of green. 
 Alixe and Franqois, riding slowly in the coolness of 
 the road below, looked up and saw it all, familiar, 
 beautiful, full of old associations. 
 
 "One misses Pietro," Frangois said. "He always 
 wanted to ride past the 'Trou du Gouvemeur"/' 
 
 A Roman legend had given this name to the deep 
 pool of the brook by the road ; it was said that the 
 cruel old governor had used it, two thousand years 
 back, for drowning refractory peasants. Alixe gazed 
 steadily at the dark murmuring water. 
 
 "Yes, one misses him. Is life like that, do you 
 suppose, Frangois ? One grows up with people, and 
 they get to be as much a part of living as the air, or 
 one's hands — and then, suddenly, one is told that 
 
 144 
 
I SAID IT, AND I WILL 145 
 
 they are going away. And that ends it. One must 
 do without air, without hands. What a world, 
 Franqois !" 
 
 "We are not meant to like it too much, I believe, 
 Alixe," said Franqois sunnily. "It is just en pas- 
 sant, this world, when you stop to consider. The 
 real business will come, I suppose, when we are 
 moved on a step farther. Friendships and separa- 
 tions will not seem so badly arranged then, probably. 
 This is school, this life, I gather. My mother says 
 it is not very important if one has a good seat in the 
 school-room or a bad; if one sits near one's play- 
 mates or is sent to another corner, so long as one is 
 a good child and works heartily at one's lessons. It 
 is only for a day — and then we go home, where all 
 that is made right. Not a bad idea of my mother's, 
 is it, Alixe?" 
 
 "Your mother is a wonderful woman," Alixe an- 
 swered thoughtfully. "She lives like that. She 
 never let things trouble her, not even when your 
 father lost everything. Did she, Franqois?" - 
 
 "No," said Francois. "She is one of the few 
 people who know what the real things are and live 
 in them. It is hard to do that. I can not. I care 
 so bitterly for what I want. It is" — Francois hesi- 
 tated — "it is very hard for me to give up — what I 
 
146 THE MARSHAL 
 
 want." He stumbled over the words; his voice 
 shook so that AHxe shifted in the saddle and looked 
 at him inquiringly. 
 
 "Francois! Is anything wrong? Must you give 
 up something?" 
 
 Frangois laughed then and patted the brown 
 arching neck of Capitaine, successor to Coq. "Ev- 
 erybody must give up things; and renunciation is 
 the measure of strength," he said with twenty-year- 
 old generalization, yet with a light in his face which 
 might have been the smiling of an aged saint. "You 
 were talking about Pietro," he went on rapidly; 
 "about our separation from him, our good old 
 Pietro ! I do miss him. Yet that was inevitable from 
 the beginning. That was life. Pietro is Italian ; he has 
 his place over there" — and he nodded to where far- 
 oflF Italy might lie. "He is a man, Pietro, every 
 inch, already. He has gone to fill his place, as 
 quietly, as unhesitatingly as he will do everything 
 that comes to him." 
 
 "Everything that comes to him — ^yes." Alixe 
 spoke a little scornfully. "But — Frangois — ^he does 
 not go very fast to meet the things that come to 
 him." 
 
 Frangois' eyes flashed at her. "You have nevei 
 been fair to Pietro, Alixe." 
 
I SAID IT, AND I WILL 147 
 
 "Not fair?" Alixe interrupted, and laugfied. 
 
 "No, not fair," repeated the boy. "You do not 
 seem to see what he is — a heart of gold, a wall of 
 rock. It is not his way to talk much, but he has 
 great qualities." 
 
 "What?" asked Alixe. 
 
 "What!" Frangois repeated. "You to ask that! 
 You know as well as I that Pietro is a Bayard — 
 without fear and without reproach. He is unchang- 
 ing as the ocean — ^he is to be believed in his slightest 
 word. You know that it would be a commonplace 
 for Pietro to be killed rather than play false to the 
 smallest trust. He is a fanatic of reliability." 
 
 "You make him out a slow worthy person," said 
 Alixe, and drew up the horse's bridle. "You can 
 respect a man with all those sterling qualities, but — 
 he isn't very — dashing to be like that. Is he? I 
 like a man to have initiative — some gift of leader- 
 ship." 
 
 Franqois looked at her sternly. "Dashing! Initi- 
 ative! Do you remember, Alixe, what it is that 
 Pietro has done ? Do you realize that Italy is in the 
 stress of a desperate struggle for liberty? That a 
 forlorn fight against the power of the Austrians is 
 on her hands, and that Pietro went back at eighteen 
 to take his part with the patriots? Do you realize 
 
148 THE MARSHAL 
 
 what danger that means ? Danger not only of death, 
 but of worse, of years of imprisonment in some 
 dungeon. Noblemen of higher rank than Pietro 
 are living in chains there now. It is our playmate 
 Pietro who is facing this — Pietro, who has breathed 
 the free air and ridden with us through this valley 
 for so many years. He realizes it. He went with 
 his eyes open. His family are marked ; he will be a 
 leader against the Austrians; he will be one of the 
 first to be punished if the Austrians conquer — and 
 they are very strong. He went back to Italy to a 
 lonely life, to a life of intense effort and activity and 
 danger, as quietly as if he were going back to School. 
 And you, you whom" — Frangois stopped — and went 
 on — "you whom he loves better than any one in the 
 world — wrong him." 
 
 By now Alixe was half sobbing. "How horrid 
 you are, Francois! You jump at conclusions. You 
 are not the only person who cares for Pietro. I do 
 not wrong him — ^not in my thoughts. I abused him 
 to you on purpose. I wanted to see what you would 
 say for him. One does that. If one — really cares — 
 for a person, one has the right. It is not disloyalty ; 
 I could abuse my father — I could say any horrid 
 thing I chose, and not a word, not a shadow of a 
 thought, would be disloyal, because I love him so 
 
I SAID IT, AND I WILL 149 
 
 that it would all be nothing compared to that. I 
 know Pietro is brave ; I know he has gone into dan- 
 ger — ^is it so very bad, Franqois? But — I am irri- 
 tated often with Pietro — because you are always the 
 hero. It is always you who do the brave thing, and 
 it is easy for every one to — to adore you, Frangois. 
 You seem only to smile at a person and they — they 
 care for you. And -Pietro is just — quiet and reli- 
 able. It isn't fair for you to have — everything." 
 There were tears in her eyes now, and a quiver in 
 her voice, and the last word was punctuated by an 
 indignant sob. 
 
 "Alixe — dear," — then Frangois stopped. "You 
 need not be afraid that I shall have more than 
 Pietro," he began uncertainly. "For it is not going 
 to be so. He will have what — ^what I would give 
 my life for." Then he hurried on. "I see how it 
 is," he said gently, "and yOu are right to care so 
 loyally for Pietro. He is worth it And you must 
 never care less, Alixe — ^never forget him because he 
 has gone away. He will come back." The boy 
 spoke with effort, slowly, but Alixe was too much 
 occupied with her own tumultuous thoughts to no- 
 tice. "He will surely come back and — belong to you 
 more than ever. He will come back distinguished 
 and covered with honors, perhaps, and then — and 
 
ISO THE MARSHAL 
 
 then — Alixe, do you see the chestnut tree at the 
 corner that turns to the chateau ? It is a good bit of 
 soft road — we will race to that tree — shall we ? And 
 then I will tell you something." 
 
 The horses sprang into a canter and then a gallop, 
 and stretched their legs and flattened down into a 
 sharp run. The girl and the boy were flying side 
 by side through the mellow landscape; the gray 
 towers and red roofs of the chateau were in the 
 distance ; the little Cheulte lay to the right, its pools 
 like a string of quicksilver beads spotted on the 
 fields; the mountain of the Rose, calm and enormous 
 and dark, lifted out of the country to the left. 
 Many a time in the six years to come Franqois saw 
 that picture and felt the vibrating air as they rushed 
 through it. He had strained his very soul to talk at 
 length as he had of his rival, of his friend; he felt 
 sick and exhausted from the effort ; now he must tell 
 her that he was going to-morrow, and he must not 
 let a word or a look tell her that he loved her. The 
 horses raced merrily; Alixe sat close to the saddle 
 with the light swinging seat, the delicate hand on 
 the bridle, which were part of her perfect horse- 
 manship, and over and over as he watched her ride 
 Franqois said to himself: 
 
 "I will give my happiness for the seigneur's-— I 
 
" Alixe. dear," — then Frangois stopped. 
 
I SAID IT, AND I WILL 151 
 
 said it, and I will. I will be a friend to Pietro al- 
 ways — I said it, and I will." 
 
 Over and over the horses' flying feet pounded out 
 that self-command, and at length the music of the 
 multiplying hoof beats' grew slower, and with tight- 
 ening rein they drew in and stopped under the big 
 chestnut. Alixe was laughing, exhilarated, lovely. 
 
 "Wasn't it a good race? Didn't they go deli- 
 ciously?" she threw at him. And then, "We will go 
 around by the Delesmontes Road; it is only three 
 miles farther, and it is early in the afternoon ; there 
 is nothing to do." 
 
 Franqois spoke slowly, "I am afraid — I must 
 not, Alixe. I am going to the farm to-night." 
 
 "To the farm!" AHxe looked at him in surprise. 
 "But you were not to go till to-morrow. My father 
 and I will ride over with you. Have you forgotten ?" 
 
 "No," said Francois, "I have not forgotten — no, 
 indeed. But I am going away to-morrow, Alixe." 
 
 "Going away?" Alixe turned sharply, and her 
 deep blue glance searched his eyes. "What do you 
 mean, Franqois?" And then, imperiously: "Don't 
 tease me, Franqois ! I don't like it." 
 
 Franqois steadied, hardened his face very care- 
 fully, and answered : "I am not teasing you, Alixe. 
 I did not tell you before because — " he stopped, for 
 
152 THE MARSHAL 
 
 his voice was going wrong — "because I thought we 
 would have our ride just as usual to-day. I only 
 knew about it myself this morning. I am going to 
 Pietro." 
 
 "Going — to Pietro!" Alixe was gasping pain- 
 fully. "Frangois — it is a joke — tell me it is a poor 
 joke. Quick !" she ordered. "I won't have you play 
 with me, torture me !" 
 
 "It is not a joke." The boy's eyes were held by 
 a superhuman effort on the buckle of the bridle-rein 
 lying on his knee. "There was a letter from Pietro 
 this morning. The seigneur wishes me to go. I 
 wish to go. I am leaving to-morrow." 
 
 "Going to-morrow !" The girl's voice was a wail. 
 "You — taken away from me!" Then in a flash: 
 "I hate Pietro ! He is cruel — he thinks only of him- 
 self. He wants you— but I want you too. How can 
 I live without you, Fran9ois?" Then softly, hur- 
 riedly, while the world reeled about the boy, sitting 
 statue-like in his saddle : "It is just as I said. You 
 are as much a part of my life as the air I breathe — 
 and you and my father and Pietro say quite calmly. 
 The air is to be taken away — you must do without 
 it.' I can not. I will choke !" She pulled at her 
 collar suddenly, as if the choking were a physical 
 present fact. 
 
I SAID IT, AND I WILL 153 
 
 No slightest motion, no .shade of inflection missed 
 Franqois; still he sat motionless, his eyes on the 
 little brass buckle, his lips set in a line, without a 
 word, without a look toward her. And suddenly 
 Alixe, with another quick blue glance from under 
 the black long lashes — Alixe, hurt, reckless, des- 
 perate, had struck her horse a sharp blow — and she 
 was in the road before him, galloping away. 
 
 He let her go. He sat quiet a long time. As she 
 turned in, still galloping, at the high stone gateway 
 of the chateau, his eyes came back again to the little 
 shining buckle. It seemed the only thing tangible 
 in a dream-universe of rapture and agony. Over 
 and over he heard the words she had said — words 
 which must mean — what? Had they meant it? 
 Had he possibly been mistaken? No — ^the utter 
 happiness which came with the memory of the soft 
 hurried voice must mean the truth — she cared for 
 him, and then over and over and over he said, half 
 aloud, through his set teeth : 
 
 *'I said that I would give my happiness for my 
 seigneur's; I said that I would be a friend to Pietro; 
 IwilL" 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE MOTHER OF A PRINCE 
 
 THE walls of the palace at Ancona dropped to 
 the sea ; against them the waves danced. Out 
 on the blue water lay a fleet of fishing-boats, and 
 the wind flapped torn sails, and the sunlight glanced 
 on battered hulls and littered decks. The woman 
 who sat by an open window of the palace pushed the 
 black trailing of her gown from her, as if the som- 
 bemess hurt her eyes ; she laid her head against the 
 window-frame and stared at the breeze-tossed waves 
 and the fishing fleet. 
 
 "It may be our only hope of escape — those 
 wretched boats," she said, half aloud, and her blue 
 eyes were full of sadness, almost of hopelessness. 
 
 A sound caught her ear, and she lifted her head 
 quickly. The door into the next room was partly 
 open and some one moved there, that was all. She 
 turned, the lines of her figure falling again into a 
 melancholy pose. 
 
 IS4 
 
THE MOTHER OF A PRINCE 155 
 
 "The doctor takes a long time," she spoke, and 
 gazed out once more to the water. 
 
 There had been a spirited young girl years before 
 who had romped in the gardens of Malmaison, who 
 had led the laughter which echoed through those 
 avenues of lime and plantain, whose sweetness and 
 vivacity had drawn the figure of Napoleon himself 
 into the vortex of gladness which was her atmos- 
 phere. Always brightness seemed to follow her 
 through the enchantment of the place; always she 
 seemed to move in gaiety. To-day, on a March 
 morning of 1830, this was she — Hortense. 
 
 The daughter of France she had been, the queen 
 of Holland, and now for years an exile. Here, ill, 
 a fugitive, in her nephew's palace at Ancona, with 
 the Austrians at the gate of the city, she waited in 
 anxiety almost more intense than she could bear the 
 word of the doctor as to her son. Five days before, 
 at Forli, her older boy had died, and her sore heart 
 stirred with a sickening throb as she thought of this 
 other — Louis — now her only child, lying in the 
 room beyond in a high fever, ill with the disease with 
 which his broftier had fallen. A woman's soul 
 might well be overcrowded with such sorrow and 
 such fear, but there was more. Her two boys had 
 thrown in their lot shortly before with the Italian 
 
156 THE MARSHAL 
 
 revolutionists, and had fought, and had distin- 
 guished themselves. And now that the revolution of 
 the Romagna was a failure, that the Austrian army 
 was advancing victoriously, now that death had 
 taken the older to safety, the younger — ^Louis — ^the 
 invalid lad in the room beyond, was in imminent 
 danger. He was excepted from the general am- 
 nesty; the natural ways of escape were closed, for 
 the authorities of Tuscany and of Switzerland had 
 let her know that the Prince would not be permitted 
 in those territories. From Rome two of her son's 
 uncles. Cardinal Fesch and King Jerome, had sent 
 word that if he were taken by the Austrians he was 
 lost. And at the moment when Hortense had de- 
 cided to carry her boy off to Turkey by way of 
 Corfu, an Austrian fleet appeared in the Adriatic. 
 
 But the spirit and the wit of the girl of Malmaison 
 were strong in the woman who must save her son. 
 Wherever she went she made new friends, so win- 
 ning was her personality; wherever she went she 
 found old friends who had not forgotten her. There 
 had been a young English earl in the Malmaison 
 days who had lost his steady heart to the piquant 
 fascination of the Princess Hortense as she laughed 
 at him from the side of Josephine. He had gone 
 away saddened, but had never quite forgotten his 
 
THE MOTHER OF A PRINCE 157 
 
 French sweetheart. At Florence, a month before, 
 he had appeared, and to his influence she owed a 
 British passport made out for an English lady trav- 
 eling with two sons. No one would suspect that she 
 would dare take the route described in it — through 
 Paris to England — but Hortense dared much al- 
 ways, and everything for her children. She had set 
 out from Florence to find them, to draw them from 
 the doomed army of insurgents ; to save them from 
 the Austrians. When she found them, Napoleon, 
 the elder, was dead and Louis was coming down 
 with his brother's malady. But the boy kept up for 
 his mother's sake, and the two, fresh from their 
 loss, had pressed on hurriedly to Ancona, for there 
 was not a moment to spare. So ill herself that she 
 could not stand alone, she made all the arrange- 
 ments for their escape ; English liveries, a bed in the 
 caleche, all were arranged ; even the tragedy of fill- 
 ing the place of the lost boy was accomplished — as 
 it must be, for her passport read for an English 
 woman with two sons. The young Marquis Zappi, 
 bearer of despatches from the revolutionists to 
 Paris, gladly agreed to travel with them. Suddenly 
 Louis collapsed. He had been dangerously ill for 
 days, but had borne up pluckily, hiding every sign 
 so that he might help his mother. The collapse had 
 
158 THE MARSHAL 
 
 been the day before, and the doctor had promised 
 that twenty- four hours' rest would give him strength 
 to risk the journey so necessary to him. 
 
 In such a critical state were the aflfairs of the 
 black-gowned woman who gazed from the palace 
 windows to the sea. The doctor was with her son. 
 The boy's condition seemed to her no better, but 
 worse than the day before; she waited an official 
 verdict. The door opened and she looked up as a 
 tall man came in. 
 
 "Doctor," she stammered and stopped — she 
 feared to ask. 
 
 "Your Majesty," the old man said gravely, "I 
 grieve to be the bearer of bad news." 
 
 "He is worse, Doctor?" The words came with a 
 gasp ; she felt that she could not face more trouble. 
 
 "Yes, your Majesty, the fever has increased since 
 yesterday. With his youth and strength we may 
 hope — if he is carefully nursed — but to move him 
 would be madness." 
 
 Queen Hortense struck her hands together. 
 "What can I do? What can I do?" she demanded, 
 and the doctor stood gravely regarding her, help- 
 less, with all his devotion to the house of Bona- 
 parte, to suggest a way out. "If he stays he will be 
 taken — they will execute him. If he goes he will 
 
THE MOTHER OF A PRINCE 159 
 
 die on the way," she cried in an agony of indecision. 
 "Doctor, tell me, think for me — ^how can I save 
 him?" 
 
 And the doctor still stood silent, suffering with 
 the impotent desire to help her. "If — if only the 
 Austrians might think that the Prince were gone," 
 he stammered, and hated himself for the futility of 
 the words. But the Queen stood with a hand half 
 lifted, arrested. Her blue eyes were alive with the 
 crossing and weaving of swift ideas, and then with a 
 catch of her breath she laughed at him like a pleased 
 child. "Doctor, you are a very clever man," she said. 
 "Together we are going to save the Prince." 
 
 The vivacity of the schoolgirl of Madame de 
 Campan flashed for a moment into her manner, 
 warmed to sudden life by the joy of hope. The 
 doctor waited, enchanted, bewildered, to hear his 
 cleverness explained, but Hortense did always the 
 unexpected thing. She shook her finger at him. 
 
 "I'm not going to tell you," she said. "At least 
 not till I have to — not till to-morrow at all events. 
 But all to-day, as you visit your patients you may 
 think that you are saving the Prince from his ene- 
 mies — and to-morrow you may know how. Good- 
 by. Doctor," and, puzzled and pleased, the physician 
 was gone. 
 
i6o THE MARSHAL 
 
 "Send Fritz to me," the Queen ordered, and a mo- 
 ment later the young man who was for years the 
 confidential servant of Hortense, who knew more 
 of the history of her middle years, perhaps, than 
 any other, stood before her. "Fritz, when does a 
 packet sail for Corfu ?" she demanded. 
 
 Fritz Rickenbach considered it his business to 
 know everything. "To-night, your Majesty," he an- 
 swered unhesitatingly. 
 
 "You will see that the luggage of Prince Louis 
 is on board, and that a carriage is ready to take him 
 there," she ordered. 
 
 "But yes, your Majesty." Fritz still stood regard- 
 ing her seriously. "It is a great happiness to me, 
 your Majesty, that his Highness is well enough to 
 travel." 
 
 Fritz knew perfectly that there was a complica- 
 tion somewhere, and he wanted to know what it 
 was. His curiosity was patent, but his deep interest 
 in the affairs of his people could not be an imperti- 
 nence, and the Queen smiled at him. 
 
 "You shall know about it, Fritz," she said. "The 
 Austrians are coming. The Prince can not be moved. 
 If they take him, it means death. They must be- 
 lieve that he is gone, and it is for you and me to 
 make them believe it, Fritz. You must get a pass- 
 
/ THE MOTHER OF A PRINCE i6i 
 
 port signed by all of the authorities — that is easy 
 to-day; you must engage his place in the packet for 
 to-night ; you must tell the servants — tell every one 
 — ^that the Prince goes to Corfu, and you must see 
 that the proper luggage is on board. It will be 
 known that I stay, but they will not molest an ill 
 woman. Do you understand the plan, Fritz?" 
 
 "But yes, your Majesty," Fritz answered with his 
 face alight. 
 
 And so the packet sailed for Corfu, and all day 
 before the sailing the servants of Hortense moved 
 busily between the palace and the boat, carrying 
 luggage and making arrangements. And only one 
 or two knew the secret that Prince Louis Bonaparte 
 had not sailed in the packet, but lay tossing with 
 fever in a little room beyond his mother's, carried 
 there for greater privacy by Fritz and the doctor. 
 
 Two days later, as the Queen sat quietly by her 
 boy's bedside, she heard that the vanguard of the 
 Austrians had entered the city, and almost at once 
 Fritz came to tell her that the palace in which she 
 was staying had been chosen for the residence of 
 the general commanding. The probability of this 
 had not entered her mind ; it seemed the last straw. 
 The Austrian officer demanded the Queen's own 
 chamber for his chief, but when the steward's wife 
 
1 62 THE MARSHAL 
 
 told him the name of the lady who was in the rooms 
 which had not been given up, he bowed deeply and 
 said not a word. It was another of that brotherhood 
 scattered over Europe — ^the friends of Hortense; 
 it was an officer who had protected her years before 
 at Dijon. 
 
 So for a week they lived side by side with their 
 enemies and only a few feet lay between the Prince 
 and capture, for his room was next that of the 
 Austrian general, with but a double door between. 
 It was a life of momentary anxiety, for the Queen 
 feared each time the invalid spoke that they might 
 recognize a man's voice; when he coughed she 
 turned white. But at the end of the week Louis 
 was at last well enough to go. He was to leave 
 Ancona disguised as one of his mother's lackeys, 
 the young Marquis Zappi was to put on another 
 livery, and over the frontier they were both to 
 change and be the sons of Hortense traveling on 
 the Englishman's passport. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE RUSE 
 
 THE day before the escape, as the Prince, weak 
 and ill yet, lay in bed, word was brought that 
 a messenger of the marquis wished to see the Queen. 
 
 "Let me see him too, my mother," the silent, 
 grave, young man begged. "It may be that I can 
 help you. I wish to help." 
 
 In a moment Fritz introduced a slight alert per- 
 son whose delicate face was made remarkable by a 
 pair of eyes large and brilliant and full of visionary 
 shadows, yet alive with fire. One saw first those 
 uncommon eyes and then the man. If they had not 
 been entirely concerned with his message they might 
 have remarked that he trembled as he looked at the 
 Prince's face; that his voice shook as he answered 
 the Queen's question. 
 
 "I have the unhappiness, your Majesty, to bring 
 you bad news," he said, speaking to her, but still 
 gazing eagerly at the Prince. "The Marquis Zappi, 
 my employer, is ill. He was taken suddenly last 
 
 163 
 
1 64 THE MARSHAL 
 
 night, and to-day is much worse, and there is no 
 chance that he can travel with your Majesty to- 
 morrow." 
 
 J The Queen threw out her hands with a gesture of 
 hopelessness. "What can we do?" she exclaimed. 
 i"Am I to plan and plan and have always an uncon- 
 querable obstacle? Can I not save my boy? I 
 might have known that everything seemed too bright 
 this morning, too good to be true. Yet it is not 
 possible that after all they should" — she looked at 
 her son; her courage came springing back. "They 
 shall not take you," and her eyes flashed defiance at 
 a world of enemies, and she went over and threw 
 her arm about his neck. "Louis, don't let yourself 
 be excited, dearest. They shall not take you. I can 
 save you." 
 
 It was as if she put a spur to her brain ; there was 
 a moment's silence and the two lads watched her 
 brows drawing together under the concentration of 
 her brain. 
 
 "Of course," she said suddenly, and laughed — a 
 spontaneous laughter which seemed to flood her 
 with youthfulness. She turned her blue glance 
 swiftly on the newcomer, the slender boy with the 
 luminous eyes. "You are in the employ of the Mar- 
 quis Zappi, Monsieur?" 
 
THE RUSE i6s 
 
 "But yes, your Majesty. I am the secretary of 
 Monsieur le Marquis." She paused a second, 
 seemed to take stock of the young man, of his looks, 
 his bearing, his accent. 
 
 "You are French. Have you a sympathy with 
 the family of my son, with the Bonapartes?" 
 
 It was as if a door had been opened into a fur- 
 nace, so the eyes blazed. "Your Majesty, I would 
 give my life for his Highness," he said quietly. The 
 impassive face of the young Prince turned toward 
 the speaker, and the half-shut heavy glance, which 
 had the Napoleonic gift of holding a picture, rested 
 on him attentively. Louis Bonaparte seemed to re- 
 member something. 
 
 "What is your name. Monsieur?" he asked, and 
 it might have been noticed that his head lifted a 
 little from the pillow as he waited for the answer. 
 
 "Frangois Beaupre, Sire." The young man 
 seemed to be out of breath. "Sire!" Louis Napo- 
 leon repeated. And then, "I have seen you before. 
 Where was it? Not in Rome — ^not in Switzerland 
 — ah !" His hand flew out, and with that Francois 
 was on his knee by the bedside, and had kissed the 
 outstretched thin fingers, and the Prince's other 
 hand was on his shoulder fraternally. 
 
 "The old chateau of Vieques — my playfellow. 
 
1 66 THE MARSHAL 
 
 Frangois. I told you then I was going to remem- 
 ber, didn't I ?" Louis Napoleon demanded, laughing 
 boyishly. "Mother, he saved my life from the fall- 
 ing wall. Do you remember the story of my run- 
 away trip?" And Hortense, smiling, delighted to 
 see her sad- faced boy so pleased and exhilarated, did 
 remember, and was gracious and grateful to the 
 young Frenchman. "It is a good omen to have you 
 come to us to-day," she said with all the dazzling 
 charm which she knew how to throw into a sentence. 
 And then, eager with the headlong zest of a hunter 
 for the game, she caught the thread which wove into 
 the pattern of her scheming. "You would risk some- 
 thing to save him, would you not? You will take 
 the place of the marquis and travel with us, to- 
 morrow, and help me carry away the Prince to 
 safety?" 
 
 The dark young face was pale. "Your Majesty, 
 it is a happiness I had not dared to hope for yet." 
 
 "Yet?" the Prince demanded laconically. He 
 saved words always, this lad, but he always said his 
 thought. 
 
 The other boy's face turned to him, and he an- 
 swered very simply, "But yes, your Highness. I 
 have known always that I should have a part in your 
 Highness' fate." 
 
THE RUSE 167 
 
 Louis Napoleon, in spite of practical hard-work- 
 ing qualities, a sentimentalist, a dreamer, above all 
 a man dominated by a destiny, felt a quick shrill. 
 Unknown forces were working throughout Europe 
 to place him one day on his uncle's throne ; such was 
 the profound belief of his life. Might not this 
 man's words, electrical with sincerity, point to his 
 existence as one of those forces? It was as if he 
 had come suddenly on deep water trickling under- 
 ground through a dry country. He plunged his 
 hand into the spring. 
 
 "Tell me," he ordered. 
 
 But the Queen saw only the vagaries of irrespon- 
 sible boys in this spasmodic conversation; it was 
 important to arrange matters ; she brushed aside the 
 short vague sentences, and the Prince, a flicker of a 
 smile on his grave face, was silent. 
 
 In the gray dawn of the next morning there was 
 a slight stir through the palace, and out between the 
 lines of drowsy Austrian sentinels passed a pro- 
 cession of whose true character they were far from 
 aware, else history had changed. The guard 
 watched the departure; the sick lady — Hortense — 
 late Queen of Holland, as they all knew more or less 
 clearly, drove away slowly in her traveling caleche, 
 and on the box was a young man in the livery of a 
 
1 68 THE MARSHAL 
 
 groom whom no one of the half-awake soldiers 
 knew for Prince Louis Napoleon ; in the middle of 
 the second carriage sat another youth of two or 
 three years younger who was, the Queen's servants 
 had been told, the Marquis Zappi. Their passports 
 were examined and they went through the .gates of 
 the city without awakening the least suspicion. But 
 Hortense, as she lay back in the caleche, felt her 
 heart batter against its covering so that each breath 
 was pain; her mouth seemed parched; when she 
 tried to speak the words would not come, or came 
 in gasps ; it seemed an agonizing century before the 
 city gates were passed. And all the while the sick 
 boy, so carefully guarded from a cold breath of air 
 for days back, sat outside in a chilly drizzle, and 
 his mother's anxiety was of yet another sort as she 
 felt the dampness blow in upon her own shelter. 
 She drew a sob of relief as they gained the fields — 
 yet their dangers were only begun. All over the 
 country which they were about to cover they were 
 known, the dethroned Queen and her two sons, and 
 Louis Napoleon's immobile young face was of an 
 individuality not to be forgotten. 
 
 Not once in all their dramatic series of escapes 
 and disguises were Hortense and her sons betrayed, 
 but they had to fear the indiscretion of their friends 
 
THE RUSE 169 
 
 more than the malignity of their enemies, and this 
 part of Italy was full of friends high and low. 
 
 Over and over again they were recognized, but 
 mother and son learned to trust the untiring watch- 
 fulness, the ready resources of the Marquis Zappi's 
 understudy, the young Frenchman who had so for- 
 tunately and easily fitted into the empty place on 
 their program. The great dark eyes, smoldering 
 with unspoken loyalty, were always watching the 
 Prince, and he saved the invalid's strength and soft- 
 ened the hardships of travel in countless ways; no 
 chance seemed to escape him. Louis Napoleon, 
 living an intense life under a cold and reserved ex- 
 terior, responding as to an electric wire, to every 
 thread of incident which seemed a possible fiber in 
 the fabric weaving, he believed, for him — the fabric 
 of his imperial power — ^Louis Napoleon lost none of 
 the young man's devotion. There was little conver- 
 sation between them, for the sick boy, often in great 
 pain, had no strength to spare from the exciting and 
 strenuous days, where adventure and escape suc- 
 ceeded adventure and escape, where each step meant 
 danger, and each turn of the road anxiety. But his 
 heart was touched with a gratitude which his im- 
 passive face was far from showing; he would re- 
 member his old playmate, Franqois Beaupre. 
 
I70 THE MARSHAL 
 
 At length it was time for Prince Louis and the 
 sham marquis to drop their liveries and travel as the 
 sons of the English woman for whom their passport 
 was made out. The clothes which Beaupre was to 
 wear had belonged to the young man dead at Forli 
 * — Louis Bonaparte's brother — and as he presented 
 himself dressed in them, he saw the painful flush 
 which crept upon the Prince's face. 
 
 "Your Highness, I am sorry," he stammered. 
 "It is grief to me." And then he threw himself im- 
 pulsively on his knees by the side of Louis' chair. 
 "My Prince, I wear them with reverence," he said, 
 and then, hesitating, he added: "Perhaps I would 
 seem less unworthy if your Highness knew that, 
 mere secretary as I am, I am yet more. I am noble. 
 It is not simple Frangois Beaupre whom you honor, 
 but a man created Chevalier by the sword of the 
 Emperor." 
 
 The dull eyes of the Prince shot a glance between 
 drooping lids. "What is it you mean. Monsieur?" 
 he demanded. But at the moment the Queen entered 
 the room, and the lads sprang to their feet. Her 
 eyes caught the picture of the young Frenchman in 
 his new dress at once; they opened wide and then 
 filled with tears. 
 
 "Louis, Louis!" she cried, and laid her hand on 
 
THE RUSE 171 
 
 his arm. "He looks like him; he looks like Na- 
 poleon !" 
 
 And the brother, considering, saw that there wasr 
 a certain likeness, in the alert figure and the dark 
 pale face. From that on Hortense wished Franqois 
 with her as much as possible, and as he was sup- 
 posed to be her son it was natural that he should be. 
 There was a rushing anxious day or two, a frontier 
 passed in the middle of the night where trouble 
 with a sleepy commissioner almost brought disaster 
 upon them; there was a city to be gone through in 
 broad daylight, which was filled with traveling 
 English, any one of whom might know the Queen ; 
 there was a foolish, enthusiastic, young officer who 
 noisily greeted the Prince at another post; there 
 were hairbreadth escapes everywhere. At length 
 one night, in the valley of Chiana, they came to a 
 quiet little village where, so near were they to 
 safety, it seemed prudent to take a night's rest. 
 After this new luxury the party, refreshed and en- 
 couraged, breakfasted together the next morning. 
 
 A deferential knock sounded at the door of the 
 breakfast-room. Franqois sprang to it, and the 
 landlord stood in the opening, bowing elaborately — . 
 a soldierly old man with thick grizzled hair. 
 
 "A thousand pardons for disturbing miladi and 
 
172 THE MARSHAL 
 
 the messieurs," and miladi smiled forgivenes€. 
 "Might an old soldier of the Emperor dare to say 
 that one could not help knowing the Emperor's 
 kinsmen ?" He bowed low again to both boys alike, 
 and again Hortense smiled at him. It was comfort- 
 ing to know that the two seemed brothers to the 
 world in general, and she was so used to recogni- 
 tion and loyalty now that they appeared to belong 
 together. "Might an bid soldier of the Emperor 
 dare to show miladi — her Majesty — and the High- 
 nesses, the sword which the Emperor himself had 
 touched, the sword which he, Jean Gredin, an old 
 cuirassier of the guard, had carried in four bat- 
 tles ? There was a little story of the sword, a story 
 also of the wonderful goodness of the Emperor, 
 which miladi — her Majesty — permitting, he would 
 like to tell to her, as also to the Highnesses." 
 
 And, her Majesty permitting, and the boys 
 pleased and interested, the old cavalryman brought 
 the sword and drew it from its sheath and gave it 
 to each of them to handle, and called on them to 
 remark how it was as keen and bright as it had ever 
 been at Ulm or Austerlitz. He cleared his throat, 
 strongly, for the tale. 
 
 "Miladi — her Majesty — permitting," he began, 
 "it was on a day two days after the great battle of 
 
THE RUSE 173 
 
 Austerlitz. The country, as her Majesty and the 
 Highnesses will remember, was in a most dangerous 
 condition. Desperate bands — " Why was it the 
 landlord stopped ? 
 
 The party, caught by the fervor of his manner, 
 stared at him, annoyed as the tale of the Emperor, 
 promising so well, halted at its beginning. The 
 man stood as if drawn to his tiptoes, every muscle 
 tense, his head turned toward the doorway, listen- 
 ing. 
 
 And suddenly they were aware of a stir, a grow- 
 ing noise ; there were galloping horses ; there was a 
 jingle of harness, and voices coming nearer. With 
 a step backward the landlord flashed a glance from 
 under bushy brows down the corridor, through the 
 open door at the end, which gave on the court of 
 the inn. 
 
 "Mon Dieu!" He faced the three, standing 
 startled. He spoke fast and low. "Madame, it is 
 a squad of Austrian soldiers; they are upon us. 
 What can we do?" He hesitated only a second. 
 "Bleu-bleu — my horse — saddled under the tree yon- 
 der — if one of the Princes — if the Prince — " He 
 glanced uncertainly from one lad to the other. 
 i But the game was out of his hands. Quicker 
 hands than his had caught the play. Francois 
 
174 THE MARSHAL 
 
 Beaupre, the saber of the old cavalryman gleaming 
 in his grasp, sprang to the doorway. He swung 
 about, his great eyes radiating earnestness. 
 
 "It is Monsieur there who is the Prince," he ex- 
 plained rapidly to the landlord. "Hide him, take 
 care of him — I will draw them away. When they 
 are gone, see that the Prince and the Queen escape. 
 That is for you; you are responsible." 
 
 There was the rush of a flying figure down the 
 hallway, and out Franqois flashed across a broken 
 line of a dozen dismounted riders, straight toward 
 the landlord's horse held by a groom under the 
 trees. There was a shock of startled silence as the 
 impetuous apparition, saber gleaming at wrist, shot 
 across the court. Then there, was a hubbub of 
 voices, and a mass of uniformed figures fell toward 
 him as he threvy himself on the horse. A soldier 
 caught at the bridle. The naked sword twinkled 
 and the man was under Bleu-bleu's feet. For a 
 second there was a vortex of men and a frantic 
 horse, and riding the storm a buoyant figure of 
 fury, flashing a blade, with infinite swiftness, this 
 way and that. Then horse and lad shot out from the 
 living canvas, streaked the background of trees a 
 second and were gone, and the Austrian troopers 
 scrambled into their saddles to follow. 
 
THE RUSE 175 
 
 Through sun-spotted, breeze-tossed woods tore 
 the chase i across a road and over a low fence, and 
 still Franqois led, but the heavy horses gained. It 
 was a hopeless hunt, for the landlord's mount was 
 no match for the big cavalry horses, yet the rider's 
 light weight and clever horsemanship counted, and 
 it was fully four miles from the inn when Bleu-bleu 
 stumbled and fell at a ditch, and Fran9ois pitched 
 over his head. His lead was short by now, and they 
 were on him in a moment, in a mass ; he was seized 
 by a dozen burly Austrians. 
 
 The leader took a sharp look at him as he stood 
 panting, staring defiantly. 
 
 "What is this?" the Austrian demanded sternly, 
 and wheeled to a trooper in a bunch. "Friedrich, 
 thou knowest the cub of the Bonapartes. Is this 
 lad he?" 
 
 And Friedrich lunged forward, gasping, for he 
 had run his horse hard, and shook his head. "No, 
 my captain. I have never seen this one." 
 
 The boy looked from one to another of the threat- 
 ening group, smiling, composed in spite of his quick 
 breathing. The captain took a step close to him and 
 shook his fist in his face. 
 
 "You have fooled us, you young game-cock, have 
 you? But wait. Do you know what we will do to 
 
176 THE MARSHAL 
 
 you, you bantam of a Frenchman? Do you know 
 how we will treat you for this, we Austrians ?" 
 
 Color deepened in his cheeks, and Franqois drew 
 up his figure magnificently. His face was radiant; 
 he gloried in the theatrical beauty of the situation; 
 for the rest, he was, as the villagers of Vieques had 
 said long ago, born without fear. 
 
 "You may do what you like. Messieurs," he said 
 gaily. "It is for you ; my part is done. The Prince 
 is safe." 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 AFTER FIVE YEARS 
 
 THE window of the cell was small, but it was 
 low enough so that a man standing could see 
 from it the vast sky and the sea-line six miles away, 
 and, by leaning close to the bars, the hill that sloped 
 down into wooded country ; beyond that the sand of 
 the shore. The jailer stood close by the little win- 
 dow in the stormy sunset for a better light as he 
 dropped the medicine. 
 
 "One — two," he counted the drops carefully up to 
 nine, and then glanced at the prisoner on his cot in 
 the corner, who tossed, and talked rapidly, disjoint- 
 edly. "It is high time that the doctor saw him," the 
 jailer spoke, half aloud. "If the governor had been 
 here this would not have been allowed to run on. 
 I am glad the governor is coming back." 
 
 With that the prisoner threw off the cover from 
 his shoulders and sat up suddenly, with wild bright 
 eyes staring at the jailer. 
 
 "Pietro!" he called in astonishment. "Why, my 
 177 
 
178 THE MARSHAL 
 
 dear old Pietro!" and flung out his hands eagerly 
 toward the man, and would have sprung from the 
 bed to him. 
 
 But the jailer was at his side and held him down, 
 yet gently. "Be quiet, Signor," he said respectfully. 
 "It is only old Battista; you will see if you look. 
 Only Battista, who has taken care of you these five 
 years." 
 
 The brilliant dark eyes stared at him hungrily; 
 then with a sigh the light went out of them and the 
 head fell on the pillow. 
 
 "Ah, Battista," he said, "my good Battista." A 
 smile full of a subtle charm made the worn face 
 bright. He spoke slowly. "I thought it was my 
 friend — ^my best friend," he explained gently. 
 
 "Will the Signor take the doctor's medicine?" 
 Battista asked then, not much noticing the words, 
 for the sick man was clearly light-headed, yet with 
 a certain pleasant throb of memory which always 
 moved within him at the name of Pietro. It hap- 
 pened that the name stood for some one dear to the 
 jailer also. The signor took the medicine at once, 
 like a good child. 
 
 "Will it make me better, do you think, Battista?" 
 he asked earnestly. 
 
 "But yes, Signor; the doctor is clever." 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS 179 
 
 "I want to be better; I must get well, for I have 
 work to do as soon as I come out of prison." 
 
 "Surely, Signor. That will be soon now, I think, 
 for it is five years ; they will let you go soon, I be- 
 lieve," Battista lied kindly. 
 
 Yet he knew well how the Austrian tyrants left 
 men for a little thing, for a suspicion, for nothing, 
 lying in dungeons worse than this for three times 
 five years. It was a mere chance, he had heard, that 
 this young signor had not been sent to Spielberg 
 instead of this place; to horrible Spielberg, where 
 one might see high-bred nobles of Italy chained to 
 felons, living in underground cells. Battista shud- 
 dered. He had come to have a great affectioq for 
 this prisoner ; he trembled at the thought that some 
 caprice of those in power might send him even yet 
 to Spielberg. Moreover — Battista hardly dared 
 think it in his heart, but he himself was Italian — a 
 patriot. And behold him, jailer to a man who was 
 suffering — ^he believed — for the patriot cause. His 
 soul longed to help him, yet he was afraid, horribly 
 afraid, even to be too gentle with his prisoner. It 
 was an ofif chance that had left him here, Battista 
 Serrani, in the castle of his old masters, after the 
 castle had been confiscated by the Austrians, to be 
 used by them as a prison. But what could he do? 
 
i8o THE MARSHAL 
 
 He was a. poor man ; he had a wife and children to 
 think of ; his knowledge of the place had been useful 
 at first to the new lords, and then they had seen 
 that he was hard-working and close-mouthed, and 
 had kept him on till they had forgotten, it seemed, 
 that he was Italian at all. So here he was, set to 
 guard men whom he would give his life to make 
 free. But the masters knew well and he knew that 
 it meant more than his life to be disloyal — it meant 
 the lives of his wife and children. There would be 
 small pity for such as Battista when great noblemen 
 were treated like felons. So Battista was trusted as 
 if he were Austrian born. 
 
 All this flashed through his mind as he gazed 
 pitifully at the sick prisoner, only just out of boy- 
 hoqd, yet with that band of white hair, the badge of 
 his captivity, in the thick brown thatch of his head. 
 He lay very still now, as if his tossing were all 
 finished, his face turned to the wall; Battista, soft- 
 hearted, cautious, stopped to look at him a moment 
 before going out. As he looked the dark head 
 turned swiftly and the bright big eyes met his with a 
 light not delirious, yet not quite of every-day reason. 
 
 "You are good to me, Battista," the boy said, 
 "and just now you gave me a great pleasure. It 
 warms me yet to think of it, for, you see, I thought 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS i8i 
 
 you were Pietro — my dear Pictro — the Marquis 
 Zappi." 
 
 Battista, breathless, stared, stammered. "Whom 
 — whom did you say, Signor?" 
 
 But the prisoner had flashed into reason. The 
 color went out of his face as the tide ebbs. "Bat- 
 tista, did I say a name ? Battista — ^you will not be- 
 tray me — you will not repeat that name ? I would 
 never have said it but that I was not quite steady. 
 I must have been out of my head; I have never 
 spoken his name before in this place. Oh, if I 
 should bring danger to him! Battista, for God's 
 sake, you will not repeat that name ?" 
 
 Battista spoke low, glancing at the heavy iron 
 door of the cell. "God forbid, Signor," he whis- 
 pered, "that I should speak, here in his own castle, 
 the name of my young master." 
 
 There was a long silence. The prisoner and his 
 jailer gazed at each other as if saying things be- 
 yond words. Then the boy put out his long hot 
 fingers and caught the man's sleeve. 
 
 "Battista," he murmured, "Battista — is that true ? 
 Is it possible? Do you know — ^my Pietro ?" 
 
 "Know him, Signor?" Battista's deep voice was 
 unsteady. "My fathers have served his for eight 
 hundred years." The man was shaking with a 
 
i82 THE MARSHAL 
 
 loyalty long pent up, but Franqois lifted his head, 
 leaned on his elbow, and looked at him thoughtfully. 
 
 "But, Battista, I know you now ; he has spoken to 
 me of you; it was your son, the little Battista, who 
 was his body-servant when they were children?" 
 
 "Yes, Signor." 
 
 "I did not dream of it; I never knew what castle 
 thfe was; I never dreamed of Castelforte; you 
 would not tell me." 
 
 "I could not, Signor. It was forbidden. It is for- 
 bidden. I am risking my life every minute." 
 
 "Go, Battista," and Franqois pushed him away 
 with weak hands. "Go quickly — you have been here 
 too long. There might be suspicion. I could not 
 live if I brought trouble on you." 
 
 "It is right so far, Signor," Battista answered. 
 "It is known you are ill; I must care for the sick 
 ones a little. But I had better go now." 
 
 With that he slipped to his knees and lifted the 
 feverish hands to his lips. "The friend of my young 
 master," he said simply, but his voice broke on the 
 words. The traditional faithfulness of centuries 
 was strong in Battista; the Zappis had been good 
 masters; one had been cared for and contented al- 
 ways; one was terrorized and ground down by 
 these "Austrian swine" ; the memory of the old 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS 183 
 
 masters, the personality of any one connected with 
 them, was sacred. Battista bowed his head over the 
 hands in his own, then he stood up. 
 
 "I shall be back at bedtime. Signer," he said 
 quietly, and was gone. 
 
 But Franqois had an ally now, and he knew it. 
 The excitement of the thought, the joy of dim pos- 
 sible results buoyed his high-strung temperament 
 like a tonic. He must be, he would be careful be- 
 yond words to guard against any danger, any suspi- 
 cion for Battista, but — There were chances even 
 with that provision. Here was hope. It is neces- 
 sary, perhaps, to have been five years a prisoner in a 
 cell in an unknown castle in a foreign land to know 
 what the first glimpse of hope may mean. 
 
 Instantly, with the hope working in him, he began 
 to get well. Little by little, watching fearfully 
 against the peril of conversations long enough to 
 seem suspicious to eyes always alert, he told Battista 
 of the close friendship of the chateau in France, of 
 the splendid old officer of Napoleon and of his 
 daughter, the beautiful demoiselle, who was Alixe; 
 of the years at school together, the boyish adven- 
 tures innumerable. Every word Battista drank in; 
 he had not seen the young marquis since he had left 
 Castelforte with his father on the journey which 
 
i84 THE MARSHAL 
 
 took them to Vieques. When, at the end of his 
 school-days, the boy of eighteen had come back to 
 his country, the castle had already been seized by 
 the Austrians, and it had not been safe for Pietro to 
 come into his own country. But the man's memory 
 of his little lord was vivid and loving; he listened 
 eagerly to the least detail of his unknown older life. 
 
 And day by day the prisoner who could tell him 
 such things, who was the friend of his master, who 
 had lived with his master, became more of an idol 
 to him, stood to him more and more in the place of 
 the marquis. From the beginning of the imprison- 
 ment he had had an affection for this young stran- 
 ger; few people ever came under the influence of 
 Franqois without having an affection for him; but 
 the day of his mention of Pietro had made Battista 
 his slave. 
 
 A person of more importance than Battista had 
 fallen under the spell of Franqois' personality. The 
 governor himself had been attracted by the young 
 Frenchman. The governor. Count von Gersdorf, 
 was a vain, discontented, brilliant Austrian, at odds 
 with the world because he had not risen further in 
 it. He was without society in this mountain fortress 
 of his, and longed for it ; he had a fine voice and no 
 one to sing to; he liked to talk and had no one to 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS 185 
 
 talk to. Franqois, with his ready friendliness, with 
 his gift of finding good in every one, with his win- 
 ning manner and simplicity which had the ease of 
 sophistication, was a treasure-trove of amusement 
 to the bored Austrian. Moreover, Franqois could 
 play a guitar and accompany his songs, and knew 
 enough music to appreciate the governor's really 
 beautiful voice ; his delight in it was better than the 
 most finished flattery. He had taught the governor 
 French songs; they sang together, and the count 
 roared them out and then roared with laughter, and 
 Francois smiled and was pleased. It had come to 
 be a custom with the governor, during the last two 
 years, to have the Frenchman brought down very 
 often to his room for dinner, and to spend the 
 evening. All this was against regulations — ^but who 
 was to know ? The count was lord of life and death 
 at Castelforte, and if higher powers came once in a 
 year or two, no one would dare to speak of the 
 doings of the governor except the governor. 
 
 Things stood so with the prisoner at the time of 
 his discovery of the identity of his jailer and of his 
 jail. The governor at that time was away on a visit 
 to Vienna, looking for a promotion; he came back 
 elated and good-humored in the prospect of a change 
 within the year. But the heart of Frangois sank as 
 
1 86 THE MARSHAL 
 
 he thought what the change might mean to him. 
 This man had treated him with unhoped favor in 
 some ways. He realized what it meant to reason 
 and health to have those evenings away from his 
 narrow cold cell, even in such company as the 
 governor's. Besides which Franqois persistently 
 found good qualities in the governor. He had been 
 allowed books to read in his cell, though no writing 
 materials. Strange as it may seem, it had been in 
 some ways a happy life. The mystical thoughtful 
 bent of the boy had developed in the great quiet 
 loneliness ; with the broad Italian sky and the sound 
 of the sea in his constant companionship, his mind 
 had grown to a grasp of the greatness of living and 
 the smallness of life. A vista of thought before 
 unknown had opened out to him in the long solitary 
 days. When he awoke in the morning he let him- 
 self be floated out on a tide of meditation where 
 strange bright visions met him like islands in a 
 southern ocean. He looked forward to these 
 thoughts as to events, as a mystic of India looks to 
 Nirvana. 
 
 In the light of this happiness of prison, the hard- 
 ships of prison, the drain on his health froni damp- 
 ness and lack of air and poor food were small dis- 
 comforts, hardly to be noticed in the greatness of 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS 187 
 
 his blessings. These trials would be over shortly; 
 the real things, friendship, love, enthusiasm, were 
 eternal. Moreover, it was action he dreamed, not 
 quiescence, as he looked from the barred window at 
 the vast blue depths of Italian sky, depths pro- 
 founder, more transparent than elsewhere. His be- 
 lief in his star, in its fusion some day to come into 
 the larger star of the Bonapartes, had been strength- 
 ened, fixed, by the adventure which had landed him 
 in the desolation of an Austrian prison. He had 
 saved the Prince's life; it was an omen of greater 
 things which he should do for the Prince. If no 
 more came of it he would have done his part; he 
 could die happy, but he believed without a shadow 
 of doubt that more was to come. 
 
 " 'Some day a Marshal of France under another 
 Bonaparte,' " he said to himself one day, staring 
 through the bars at his meadow — ^he called the sky 
 so. He smiled. "But that is nothing. To help 
 place my Prince on the throne of France — ^that is 
 my work — ^my life." 
 
 He talked aloud at times, as prisoners come to do. 
 He went on then, in a low voice. 
 
 "If there were good fairies, if I had three wishes : 
 Alixe— the Prince made Emperor — Franqois Beau- 
 pre, a Marshal of France." He laughed happily. "It 
 
i88 THE MARSHAL 
 
 is child's play. Nothing matters except that my life 
 shall do its work. Even that is so small ; but I have 
 a great desire to do that. I believe I shall do that — 
 I know it." And he fell to work on a book which 
 he was planning, chapter by chapter, in his brain. 
 
 But, if h^ were to escape ever, the chance was 
 increased infinitely by the going back and forth to 
 the governor's room. A new governor might keep 
 him shut up absolutely. It had been so while the 
 count was away ; then he had been ill, and the lieu- 
 tenant in command would not let a doctor see him 
 till he became delirious ; that was the ordinary treat- 
 ment of prisoners. Frangois, thinking over these 
 things on a day, felt, with a sudden accent on the 
 steady push of his longing for freedom, the convic- 
 tion that he must get free before the count left, else 
 opportunity and force for the effort would both be 
 gone forever. And on that day Battista brought 
 in his midday meal with a look and a manner which 
 Francois remarked. 
 
 "What is it, Battista?" he asked softly. 
 
 The man answered not a word, but turned and 
 opened the door rapidly and looked out. "I thought 
 J had left the water-pitcher. Ah, here it is — I am 
 stupid," he spoke aloud. And then, finger on lip 
 dramatically, he bent over the young man. "My 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS 189 
 
 son — the little Battista — ^has had a letter. The 
 young master wishes him to come to him in France, 
 to serve him. He is going in two days." 
 
 It was whispered quickly, and Battista stood 
 erect. 
 
 "The Signer's food will get cold if the Signer 
 does not eat it," he spoke gruffly. "I do not like to 
 carry good food for prisoners who do not appreci- 
 ate it. I shall bring less to-morrow." 
 
 But Fran9ois, hardly hearing the surly tones, had 
 his hand on Battista's arm, was whispering back 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Where does he go, in France ?" 
 
 "To Vieques," the low answer came. Frangois 
 sank back, tortured. 
 
 Going to Vieques, the little Battista! From 
 Castelforte! And he, Frangois, must stay here in 
 prison! His soul was wrung with a sudden wild 
 homesickness. He wanted to see Alixe, to see his 
 mother, to see the general; to see the peaceful little 
 village and the stream that ran through it, and the 
 steep-arched bridge, and the poppy fields, and the 
 com! The gray castle with its red roofs, and the 
 beech wood, and the dim, high-walled library, how 
 he wanted to see it all! How his heart ached, 
 madly, fiercely ! This was the worst moment of all 
 
I90 THE MARSHAL 
 
 his captivity. And with that, Battista was over him, 
 was murmuring words again. Something was 
 slipped under the bedclothes. 
 
 "Paper — pens. The Signor will write a letter this 
 afternoon. And to-morrow little Battista will take 
 it." 
 
 And the heart of Francois gave a sudden throb of 
 joy as wild as its anguish. He could speak to them 
 before he died; it might be they could save him. 
 His hands stole to the package under the coarse 
 blanket. It seemed as if in touching it he touched 
 his mother and his sweetheart and his home. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 CM)OD NEWS 
 
 IN the garden of the chateau of Vieques, where 
 the stiff, gray stone vases spilled again their 
 heart's blood of scarlet and etching of vines ; where 
 the two stately lines of them led down to the sun- 
 dial and the round lawn — on one of the griffin- 
 supported stone seats Alixe and Pietro sat, where 
 Alixe and Frangois had sat five years before. 
 
 Alixe, again in her dark riding-habit, with the 
 blue feather in her hat and the gauntleted hands, 
 was grown from an exquisite slip of a girl into a 
 woman more lovely than the girl. Her eyes, when 
 she lifted the long, exaggerated, curled lashes, held 
 fire and force, and knowledge of suffering, it might 
 be, under their steady smile, but held all these in 
 control. This was a woman able not only to endure 
 things, which is the gift of most women, but to do 
 things. Pietro, his big arm stretched along the 
 back of the stone seat, watched her — as Pietro had 
 watched her always. It seemed never to trouble her 
 
 191 
 
192 THE MARSHAL 
 
 to turn and find his honest eyes fixed calmly on her 
 face. Pietro, whose illness at Ancona had put 
 Franqois into his place in the escape of Louis Na- 
 poleon, had put Franqois in his place as the 
 prisoner of Austria now these five years — Pietro 
 had managed to get away from Italy and had joined 
 Queen Hortense and her son before they entered 
 Paris. Both the Prince and Pietro had moved 
 heaven and earth to find out the fate of Francois. 
 That he had been taken by the Austrian squad at 
 the end of his wild ride they knew. More than this 
 they could not discover, except that one or two 
 things pointed to the conclusion that he had been 
 immediately executed. The Prince believed this, 
 and Pietro came to believe it. But Alixe had never 
 believed it. 
 
 In these five years Pietro had not been back to 
 Italy; the "inevitable Austrians" had put down in 
 1 83 1 the revolution in the Romagna, the rising in 
 which Prince Louis and Pietro, the Marquis Zappi, 
 had taken part. In the war-torn country no move- 
 ments of any importance had taken place since that. 
 Pietro, a Carbonaro, a member of "young Italy", a 
 marked man, was not safe inside the Italian frontier. 
 With other patriots he awaited in a foreign country 
 the day when he might go back to fight again for a 
 
GOOD NEWS 193 
 
 united Italy. In the meantime he conspired, planned, 
 worked continually for the patriot cause, and as 
 continually he tried, though now without hope, to 
 find a trace of Frangois. The boy who had dashed 
 through, the Austrian soldiers on that morning at 
 Chiana, and leaped to the landlord's horse and 
 cleared his way through with the play of the old 
 soldier's sword, and led a wild race, to fall into the 
 enemy's hands at last — the boy had disappeared 
 from the face of the earth. Pietro, grieving deeply 
 for his old friend, grieving bitterly because it was 
 in filling his place that Franqois had met his fate, 
 believed him dead. But Alixe did not believe it. 
 Pietro was often at Vieques now, and the two went 
 over the question again and again. One might not 
 speak to the general of Francois ; the blow had been 
 heavy, and the old soldier's wound had not closed; 
 it might not be touched. But Pietro and Alixe spoke 
 of him constantly. 
 
 To-day, as they sat in the garden, they had been 
 going over the pros and cons of his life or death for 
 the thousandth time. Pietro's quiet gray eyes were 
 sad as he looked away from Alixe i and across the 
 lawn to the beech wood. 
 
 "God knows I would give my life quickly if I 
 could see him coming through the trees there, as we 
 
194 THE MARSHAL 
 
 used to see him, mornings long ago, in his patched 
 homespun clothes." 
 
 Alixe followed the glance consideringly, as if 
 calling up the little, brown, trudging figure so well 
 remembered. Then she tossed up her head sharply 
 — "Who ?" — and then she laughed. "I shall be see- 
 ing visions next, like Frangois," she said. "I 
 thought it was he — back in the beech wood." 
 
 "I see no one." Pietro stared. 
 
 "But you have no eyes, Pietro — I can always see 
 a thing two minutes before you," Alixe threw at 
 him. "There — ^the man." 
 
 "Oh," said Pietro. "Your eyes are more than 
 natural, Alixe. You see into a wood; that is un- 
 canny. Yes, I see him now. Mon Dieu! he is a big 
 fellow." 
 
 "A peasant — from some other village," Alixe 
 spoke carelessly. "I do not know him," and they 
 went on talking, as they had been doing, of Fran- 
 cois. 
 
 And with that, here was Jean Phillippe Moison, 
 forty now and fat, but still beautiful in purple mil- 
 linery, advancing down the stone steps between the 
 tall gray vases, making a symphony of color with 
 the rich red of the flowers. He held a silver tray; a 
 letter was on it. 
 
GOOD NEWS 195 
 
 "For Mademoiselle." 
 
 Mademoiselle took it calmly and glanced at it, 
 and with that both the footman and the Marquis 
 Zappi were astonished to see her fall to shivering, 
 as if in a sudden illness. She caught Pietro's arm. 
 The letter was dutched in her other hand thrust 
 back of her. 
 
 "Pietro!" 
 
 "What is it, Alixe ?" His voice was quiet as ever, 
 but his hand was around her shaking fingers, and he 
 held them strongly. "What is it, Alixe ?" 
 
 She drew forward the other hand; the letter 
 shook, rustled with her trembling. "It is — from 
 Frangois !" 
 
 Jean Phillippe Moison, having stayed to listen, as 
 he ought not, lifted his eyes and his hands to heaven 
 and gave thanks in a general way, volubly, unre- 
 buked. By now the unsteady fingers of Alixe had 
 opened the paper, and her head and Pietro's were 
 bent over it, devouring the well-known writing. 
 Alixe, excited, French, exploded into a disjointed 
 running comment. 
 
 "From prison — our Francois — dear Frangois!" 
 And then: "Five years, Pietro! Think — while we 
 have been free!" And then, with a swift clutch 
 again at the big coat sleeve crowding against her: 
 
196 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "Pietro ! See, see ! The date — ^it is only two months 
 ago. He was alive then; he must be alive now; he 
 is ! I knew it, Pietro ! A woman knows more things 
 than a man." 
 
 With that she threw up her head and fixed Jean 
 Phillippe, drinking in all this, with an unexpected 
 stern glance. "What are you doing here, Moison? 
 What manners are these?" Then, relapsing in a 
 flash into pure human trust and affection toward the 
 anxious old servant : "My dear, old, good Moison — 
 he is alive — Monsieur Fran9ois is alive — in a hor- 
 rible prison in Italy! But he is alive, Moison!" 
 And with that, a sudden jump again into dignity. 
 "Who brought this, Moison?" 
 
 Jean Phillippe was only too happy to have a hand 
 in the joyful excitement. "Mademoiselle, the young 
 person speaks little language. But he, told me to say 
 to Monsieur the Marquis that he was the little 
 Battista." 
 
 Pietro looked up quickly. "Alixe, it is the servant 
 from my old home of whom I spoke to you. I can 
 not imagine how Frangois got hold of him, but he 
 chose a good messenger. May I have him brought 
 here? He must have something to tell us." 
 
 Alixe, her letter tight in her hands, struggled in 
 her mind. Then: "The letter will keep — yes, let 
 
GOOD NEWS 197 
 
 him come, and we can read it all the better after for 
 what he may tell us." 
 
 So Moison, having orders to produce at once the 
 said little Battista, retired, much excited, and re- 
 turned shortly — but not so shortly as to have omitted 
 a fling of the great news into the midst of the 
 servants' hall. He conducted, marching behind 
 him, the little Battista, an enormous young man 
 of six feet four, erect, grave, stately. This dignified 
 person, saluting the lady with a deep bow, dropped 
 on one knee before his master, his eyes full of a 
 worshiping joy, and kissed his hand. Having done 
 which, he arose silently and stood waiting, with 
 those beaming eyes feasting on Pietro's face, but 
 otherwise decorous. 
 
 First the young marquis said some friendly words 
 of his great pleasure in seeing his old servant and 
 the friend of his childhood, and the big man stood 
 with downcast eyes, with the color flushing his 
 happy face. Then, "Battista," asked the marquis, 
 "how did you get the letter which you brought 
 mademoiselle ?" 
 
 "My father," answered Battista laconically. 
 
 "How did your father get it ?" 
 
 "From the signor prisoner, my Signor." 
 
 Alixe and Pietro looked at him attentively, not 
 
igS THE MARSHAL 
 
 comprehending by what means this was possible. 
 Pietro, remembering the little Battista of old, 
 vaguely remembered that he was incapable of initi- 
 ative in speech. One must pump him painfully. 
 
 "Was your father in the prison where, the signor 
 is confined?" Alixe asked. 
 
 The little Battista turned his eyes on her a second, 
 approvingly, but briefly. They went back without 
 delay to their affair of devouring the face of his 
 master. But he answered promptly. "Yes, Signo- 
 rina; he is there always." 
 
 "Always?" Pietro demanded in alarm. "Is Bat- 
 tista a prisoner?" 
 
 "But no, my Signor." 
 
 "What then? Battista, try to tell us." 
 
 So adjured, little Battista made a violent effort. 
 "He is one of the jailers, my Signor." 
 
 "Jailers ? For the Austrians ?" The face of the 
 marquis took all the joyful light out of the face of 
 little Battista. 
 
 "My Signor," he stammered, "it could not be 
 helped. He was there. He knew the castle. They 
 forced him at first, and — and it came to be so." 
 
 "Knew the castle!" Pietro repeated. "What 
 castle?" 
 
 Battista's eyes turned to his master's like those of 
 
GOOD NEWS ig© 
 
 a faithful dog, trusting but not understanding. 
 "What castle, my Signor ? Castelforte — the Signer's 
 own castle — what other ?" 
 
 A sharp exclamation from Alixe summed up 
 everything. "Your castle is confiscated ; they use it 
 as a prison. Fran9ois is a prisoner there, Pietro! 
 All these years — in your own home !" 
 
 "I never dreamed of that," Pietro spoke, think- 
 ing aloud. "Every other prison in Austria and Italy 
 I have tried to find him in. I never dreamed of 
 Castelforte." 
 
 And with that, as if pulling teeth, they got by 
 slow degrees all that he knew from the little Bat- 
 tista. The letter, tight in Alixe's hand, was still 
 unread; this living document seemed to bring them 
 closer to their friend than even his written words. 
 There were some things in the living letter, more- 
 over, not to be found in the one of paper and ink. 
 The little Battista, being put to the wall, told them 
 what his father had told him, what the doctor of the 
 prison had told his father. How the prisoner's 
 health was failing; of that band of white in his dark 
 hair; at last that the doctor had said to the big 
 Battista that the prisoner could not live more than 
 two or three years as things were; that even if re- 
 leased he might not regain his health, would not 
 
200 THE MARSHAL 
 
 live, perhaps ; that the only thing which could save 
 him would be a long sea voyage. 
 
 "A long sea voyage !" Alixe groaned and put her 
 face into her hands suddenly, and Pietro looked very 
 sorrowful. "A long sea voyage for a political pris- 
 oner in the hands of the pitiless Austrians !" 
 
 At the end of the interview the little Battista put 
 his hand into his breast pocket and brought out 
 another letter, thickly folded. Would mademoiselle 
 have him instructed where to find the mother of the 
 signer prisoner ? He had promised to put this into 
 her own hands. He must do it before he touched 
 food. 
 
 And Jean Phillippe Moison, who had lurked dis- 
 creetly back of the nearest stone vase, not missing a 
 syllable, was given orders, and the huge little Bat- 
 tista was sent off up the stone steps between the 
 scarlet flowers, up the velvet slope of lawn, in charge 
 of the purple one. 
 
 Half an hour later the general walked up from 
 the village, walked slowly, thoughtfully through the 
 beech wood, his face hardly older than when he had 
 come to Vieques, but sterner and sadder; his still 
 soldierly gait less buoyant than it had been five years 
 ago. There were voices coming to him down the 
 wind through the trees. The general's keen eyes — 
 
GOOD NEWS 20I 
 
 as keen as Alixe's — searched the distant leafy dim- 
 ness and made out shortly Alixe and Pietro hurry- 
 ing to meet him. Why, he wondered to himself as 
 the two young people swung through the wood — 
 why had nothing more ever come of this long friend- 
 ship? He felt that Pietro loved the girl; he knew 
 that the girl loved Pietro, at least as a sister loves a 
 brother. But she was not a sister ; why had it gone 
 no further? Alixe, now a very beautiful woman, a 
 woman of a charm greater than beauty, had had 
 many lovers, but no one of them had touched her 
 heart, and this Frenchman and his daughter were on 
 strange terms for a French family. So intimate, so 
 equal had the two been always that the general 
 would not have arranged a marriage for her as 
 would any common father of his country. Alixe 
 must have her free choice. Alixe was no ordinary 
 girl to be happy in a marriage of convenience; she 
 must have love, his Alixe. 
 
 But what was Pietro about? And what, more- 
 over, was Alixe about? Did she care for him? 
 Or- — his heart sank at the thought — was it possible 
 that her big warm heart was wearing itself out for 
 a man dead or worse than dead — for Franqois, shot 
 by the Austrians, or else buried without hope in an 
 Austrian fortress? The general went over this 
 
202 THE MARSHAL 
 
 question many times as he walked or rode about the 
 Valley Delesmontes, as he sat in the high dim 
 library, as he lay in bed at night and listened! through 
 the stillness to the Cheulte rushing down over its 
 stones half a mile away. He wished above all other 
 wishes to know Alixe married to Pietro ; yet when 
 he saw them together he was jealous for the mem- 
 ory of Francois, of his boy Francois, whose career 
 had promised so brilliantly, whose dashing courage, 
 whose strength and brains and beauty and charm 
 had been his pride and delight almost as much as the 
 brave bright character of Alixe. He himself had 
 sent the boy away to keep him from Alixe. It 
 might be he had sent him to his death ; it might be 
 he had spoiled Alixe's life as well. He could not 
 tell. 
 
 He puzzled over it as he came up through the 
 park — and then he saw Alixe and Pietro coming 
 joyfully toward him, running light-heartedly, call- 
 ing to him with excited gay voices. It stabbed the 
 general's heart; a quick thought came of that other 
 who had been always with them, now dead or worse, 
 of that other whom these two had forgotten. And 
 with .that they were upon him, and Alixe was kissing 
 him, hugging him, pushing a letter into his hand, up 
 his sleeve, into his face — anywhere. 
 
GOOD NEWS 203 
 
 "Father — good news — the best news — almost the 
 best ! Father, be ready for the good news !" 
 
 "I am ready," the general growled impatiently. 
 "What is this foolery? Sabre de hois! What is 
 your news, then, you silly child ?" 
 
 And Alixe, shaking very much, laid her hand on 
 his cheek and looked earnestly into his eyes. 
 "Father, Francois is alive !" 
 
 For all his gruff self-control the general made the 
 letter an excuse shortly to sit down. Queer, that a 
 man's knees should suddenly bend and give way 
 because of a thrill of rapture in a man's psycholog- 
 ical make-up! But the general had to sit down. 
 And then and there all that had been extracted from 
 little Battista was rehearsed, and the letter read over 
 from start to finish. 
 
 The letter, still kept in that cabinet in Virginia, 
 told them all that has already been written or told, 
 and which was of importance to this chronicle. But 
 some of it was what has been quoted about the old 
 days when the three children rode Coq in the park, 
 and about the morning when the Marquis Zappi 
 came with his little boy Pietro. The general, hear- 
 ing that, was afflicted with all varieties of a cold, 
 and Alixe choked, reading it, and broke down, and 
 read again, half crying, half laughing. 
 
204 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "But he is alive, father! Alive! That is happi- 
 ness enough to kill one. I never knew till now that 
 I feared he was dead." 
 
 And the general, getting up and striding about 
 fiercely, ripped out savage words such as should be 
 avoided — many of them — and alternating with 
 symptoms of sudden severe influenza. Then he 
 whirled on the two. 
 
 "Alive — yes! But in prison — in that devil's hole 
 of an old castle !" And Alixe looked at Pietro and 
 laughed, but the general paid no attention. "He 
 must be got out. There is no time to waste. Diable! 
 He is perishing in that vile stable ! What was that 
 the lad said about the doctor's speech, that only a 
 long sea voyage could save him? One must get 
 him out, mon Dieu, quick!" 
 
 Alixe, her hand on his arm, put her head down on 
 it suddenly and stood so for a moment, her face 
 hidden. Pietro, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, 
 looked at the general with wide gray eyes, consider- 
 ing. With that Alixe flashed up, turned on the 
 young Italian, shaking her forefinger at him; her 
 eyes shone blue fire. 
 
 "This is for you, Pietro. If we should lose him 
 now, just as we have found him ! Now is the time 
 for you to show if you can be what is brave and 
 
GOOD NEWS 205 
 
 strong, as Franqois has shown. It is your castle; 
 you must save him." 
 
 Pietro looked at the girl, and the color crept 
 through his cheeks, but he said nothing. 
 
 "Alixe, my Alixe," her father put an arm around 
 her. "One may not demand heroism as if it were 
 bread and butter. Pietro will not fail us." 
 
 "Alixe always wished me to be brilliant like Fran- 
 cois," Pietro spoke gently. "But I never could." 
 
 "Yet, Pietro, it is indeed your time," Alixe threw 
 at him eagerly. "Frangois must be rescued or he 
 will die." 
 
 "Yes," Pietro answered quietly. "Frangois must 
 be rescued." 
 
 He was silent a moment, as if thinking. His 
 calm poised mind was working swiftly; one saw 
 the inner action in the clear gray eyes. The general 
 and Alixe, watching him, saw it. 
 
 "I think I know how," he said. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE STONE STAIRCASE 
 
 BATTISTA'S prisoner stood at the barred win- 
 dow high up the steep side of the castle and 
 stared out wistfully at the receding infinity of blue- 
 ness — ^his meadow. In the three months since his 
 letter had gone to France, he had grown old. The 
 juices of his youth seemed dried up; his eyes were 
 bloodshot, his skin yellow; there was no flesh on 
 him. The waiting and hoping had worn on him 
 more than the dead level of the hopeless years be- 
 fore. There was a new tenseness in the lightly^ 
 built figure, even in the long, delicate, strong fingers. 
 The prisoner had caught a whiff of the air of home 
 , and was choking for a full breath. 
 
 It had not been so before. The brightness of his 
 temperament had done him good service at first. 
 Eager, vehement, energetic, he had the heart of a 
 contented little child, and it had led him to play and 
 be happy in his prison, as a buoyant child will make 
 
 206 
 
THE STONE STAIRCASE 207 
 
 a boat of the chair in which he is set for a punish- 
 ment and sail away into adventures. This man, 
 developing out of the boy thrown into prison five 
 years ago, might well prove to have limitations. 
 Full of force and fire and gentleness, he had the 
 virtues of his qualities, but he had their defects, too. 
 It might yet well be that he would fall short in sober 
 judgment ; it might be that he would not be found 
 fitted for any complication of responsibility. Yet 
 there was in him something of the vision of the 
 mystic, something of that power — called what it 
 may be — ^which has in all ages worked miracles and 
 moved mountains. Out of his companions, sea and 
 sky and distance — out of great spaces outside and 
 great silence inside his prison he had drawn power, 
 and risen step by step in the years. On the founda- 
 tion of the Catholicism in which he had been 
 brought up he had built a religion whose breadth 
 reached right and left beyond the old measure and 
 covered living things with the charity which suffers 
 long and is kind; whose height stretched up into 
 hopes undefined, of things unseen. All of this had 
 comforted him and kept the glow of his soul un- 
 duUed. 
 
 But since Battista's son, the little Battista — who 
 had been a fisherman and not much known about the 
 
2o8 THE MARSHAL 
 
 castle — since he had gone to France with .those two 
 letters of Franqois' sewed into his right coat sleeve, 
 a restlessness all but unendurable had seized the 
 prisoner. He knew as well as his jailer, tales of 
 men thrown into dungeons coming out many years 
 after old and broken — of men never coming out at 
 all. No cruder tyrants than the Austrians ever 
 ruled, and no more pitiless. And now that his let- 
 ters had actually gone, now that they might actually 
 be in the hands of the people he loved and who 
 loved him, unrest tortured him. He counted the 
 days of the journey, the chances of delay, he made 
 allowances, and at last he believed, with a thrill of 
 joy and of pain at each thought of it, that little Bat- 
 tista must have arrived at Vieques, that his mother 
 and Alixe must have his letters. With that, unrest 
 grew fiercer. They could not help him. What 
 could they do ? How could they do anything against 
 the iron wall of Austrian power? 
 
 He said such things over to himself, even aloud, 
 to keep down a hope which he could not bear to let 
 grow, for fear of the anguish of its slow death. 
 But the hope grew and was anguish in its growth. 
 He could not help hoping, believing, that the gen- 
 eral, that Pietro, that Alixe, with her force and 
 energy and inventiveness, would yet save him. And 
 
THE STONE STAIRCASE 209 
 
 the hope and the fear racked him and he wasted 
 away and burned as with fever. 
 
 "You are not well, my friend," said the governor. 
 "The doctor must see you." 
 
 But Frangois refused lightly and laughed and 
 fell to singing an old peasant song of France which 
 he had remembered lately; he got up on the table 
 and droned it to an imaginary fiddle which he pre- 
 tended to play after the manner of old Jacques 
 Arne, who played for dances in Vieques. 
 
 "De tow cote's Von dit que je suis bete — 
 Cela se peut! Et cependant fen ris 
 Car, mes amis, si j'y perd la tete, 
 Je n'y perd pas pour cda, I'appetit! 
 
 Assis a table, a I' ombre dune treille, 
 
 Je bois et ris 
 
 Et garment je m' eerie 
 
 En avalant bouteille sur bouteille, 
 
 A quoi sert V esprit?" 
 
 So ran the song. And the governor was taken 
 with a violent fancy for it. He roared at it, and 
 sang it over in fragments till he had learned it, and 
 then he sang it and roared again and slapped his 
 knee; there was a droll comedy in Franqois' ren- 
 
2IO THE MARSHAL 
 
 dering also, not to be explained — and the count said 
 that Frangois must come to his rooms the next night 
 for dinner and sing him the song again and also 
 listen to a new one of his own. 
 
 So Franqois was taken down the stone staircase 
 and conducted to the two rooms which were the 
 governor's suite. He knew them well, for he had 
 dined, as has been said, many times with the count. 
 But to-night he was left alone a few moments in 
 the outer room, the living-room, while the governor 
 was in the bedroom, and he looked about keenly 
 with a strained attention which grew out of the 
 suppressed hope of escape. Who knew what bit of 
 knowledge of the castle might be vital, and who 
 knew how soon? He noted the swords and pistols 
 hanging on the wall, and marked a light saber whose 
 scabbard was brightly polished as if the blade also 
 were kept in good order. On the table he saw the 
 flint and steel with which Count von Gersdorf 
 lighted his pipe ; he stepped to the window and bent 
 out, scanning the wall. A stone coping, wide enough 
 for a man's foot, but little more, ran, four feet be- 
 low; ten feet beyond the window it ended in the 
 roof of a shed, a sloping roof where a man could 
 drop down, yes, or even climb up with ease. A 
 man, that is, who had climbed when a boy as Fran- 
 
THE STONE STAIRCASE 211 
 
 qois had climbed — ^lilce a cat for certainty and light- 
 ness. But what then, when one was in the court- 
 yard? It was walled about with a stone wall six- 
 teen feet high; these old ancestors of Pietro, who 
 had built this place, had planned well to keep Pie- 
 tro's friend in prison. 
 
 So Francois, not hopeful of a sortie by that point, 
 drew in his head from the open window and took 
 to examining the walls of the governor's room. 
 There were three doors — one from the hall by which 
 he had come, one behind which he now heard the 
 count moving in his bedroom, and a third. The 
 count had gone through this last door one night a 
 month before, into a dark, winding, stone staircase, 
 and disappeared for three minutes, and brought up a 
 bottle of wonderful wine. 
 
 "A fine stock they put down there — the Italians 
 who ruled here for eight hundred-odd years," he 
 had said. "I've lowered it a bit. A good spacious 
 wine-cellar and grand old wine. You will be the 
 better for a little." And Francois had watched him 
 as he put the brass key back on the chain which 
 hung from his belt. 
 
 At this point of memory the bedroom door 
 opened, and the governor came out, in great good 
 humor and ready to eat and drink as became an 
 
212 THE MARSHAL 
 
 Austrian soldier. The dinner was brought in, but 
 Francois, for all his efforts to do his part, could 
 not swallow food, or very little. The fever, the 
 unrest burning in him, made it impossible. Count 
 Gersdorf looked at him seriously when dinner was 
 over; as yet Franqois, talking, laughing, singing, 
 had eaten not over half a dozen mouthfuls. 
 
 "Certainly you are not well," he said. "I think 
 the doctor should see you." And then he nodded 
 his head and his small eyes gleamed with a brilliant 
 thought. "I know a medicine better than a doc- 
 tor's." He stood up and his fingers were working 
 at the chain of keys at his belt. Franqois watched 
 them and saw the thin, old, brass key which he 
 slipped off. "A bottle of wine of our Italian an- 
 cestors — yours and mine, Beaupre" — the count 
 chuckled — "that will cure you of your ills for this 
 evening at least." He slid the key into the lock and 
 said, half to himself, "My little brass friend never 
 leaves the belt of Albrecht von Gersdorf except to 
 do him a pleasure, bless him!" And then, "Hold 
 the candle, Beaupre — well, come along down — ^it 
 can do no harm and I can't manage a light and two 
 bottles." 
 
 So Franqois followed down the twisted, headlong, 
 stone staircase and found himself, after rather a 
 
THE STONE STAIRCASE 213 
 
 long descent, holding the lamp high, gazing curi- 
 ously about the walls of a large stone room lined 
 with shelves, filled with bottles. 
 
 "A show, isn't it?" the Count von Gersdorf de- 
 manded. "Here, hold the light on this side," and 
 he went on talking. "The wine is so old that I 
 think it must have been stocked before the time of 
 the last lord of the castle." 
 
 And Franqois, holding the light, remembering the 
 Marquis Zappi, thought so too. The count pointed 
 to a square stone in the wall which projected 
 slightly, very slightly. 
 
 ''That, is the door to a secret stock of some sort, 
 I have always thought," he said. "Probably some 
 wonderful old stuff saved for the coming of age of 
 the heir, or a great event of that sort I wish I 
 could get at it," and he stared wistfully at the 
 massive block. "But I can not stir it. And I don't 
 let any one but myself down here — ^not I." The 
 count turned away and they mounted the two stories 
 of narrow steps, for the governor's rooms were on 
 the second floor, and the staircase ran from it be- 
 tween walls, down underground. "The old chaps 
 must have thought a lot of their wine to have the 
 cellar connect directly with their own rooms — for 
 Battista tells me these were always the rooms of the 
 
214 THE MARSHAL 
 
 Za — of the lords of the castle," the governor ex- 
 plained. 
 
 And to Frangois, considering it, the fact seemed 
 an odd one. And then the governor set to work 
 drinking Pietro's wine, and little thought, as he 
 urged it on his prisoner, how much more right to 
 it the prisoner had than he. It was a wonderful old 
 liquid, full of a strange dim sparkle, and of most 
 exquisite bouquet. As he drank it Franqois silently 
 toasted its owner on his return to his own again. 
 He took so little as to disgust the governor, but it 
 put fresh life into him, and when at last he could 
 leave the count, who was by that time more than 
 fairly drunk, he went up to his cold prison under 
 the roof quieter and more at peace than he had been 
 for months. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 A LOAF OF BREAD 
 
 THE next morning Battista came in with a man- 
 ner which to the observing eye of his prisoner 
 foretold distinctly some event. He talked more 
 than usual, and more gruffly and loudly, but at last, 
 after wandering about the room some minutes, all 
 the time talking, scolding, he swooped on Francois 
 and thrust a thick paper into his coat and at the 
 same instant his heavy left hand was over Fran- 
 cois' mouth. 
 
 "Not a word," he whispered, and then — "The 
 loaf of bread." 
 
 Frangois, struck dumb and blind, turned hot and 
 cold, and his shaking hand in his coat pocket 
 clutched the letter. 
 
 But Battista prodded him with his hard fore- 
 finger. "Be careful," he muttered, and then again, 
 "The bread"— with a sharp prod— "The loaf of 
 bread" — and the door had clanged. Battista was 
 gone. 
 
 215 
 
2i6 THE MARSHAL 
 
 A strong man, who had not been shut away from 
 life, would likely have read the letter instantly, 
 would instantly have examined the long round loaf 
 lying before him. Franqois was ill and weak and 
 it was the first word for five years from his own 
 people, which lay in his hand ; he sat as if turned to 
 stone, touching the paper as if that were enough; 
 he sat for perhaps fifteen minutes. 
 
 Then suddenly a breathlessness came over him 
 that something might happen before he could read 
 it — this writing which, whatever it should say, 
 meant life and death to him. Taking care not to 
 rustle the paper, deadening the sound under his 
 bedclothes, he read it, kneeling by the bed. It was 
 four letters — from his mother and Alixe and the 
 general and Pietro; but the first three were short. 
 He felt, indeed, reading them, that no words had 
 been written, that only the arms of the people he 
 loved had strained about him and their faces laid 
 against his, and that so, wordlessly, they had told 
 him but one thing — their undying love. Weak, 
 lonely, his intense temperament stretched to the 
 breaking point by the last three months of fearful 
 hope, it was more than he could bear. He put the 
 papers against his cheek and his head dropped on 
 the bed, and a storm of tears tore his soul and body. 
 
A LOAF OF BREAD 217 
 
 B^t it was dangerous ; he must not be off his guard ; 
 he remembered that swiftly, and with shaking fin- 
 gers he opened Pietro's letter — Pietro's letter which, 
 yellowed and faded but distinct yet, in the small 
 clear writing, is guarded to-day with those other let- 
 ters in the mahogany desk in Virginia. 
 
 "My dear brother Francois," the letter began, 
 and quick tears came again at that word "brother", 
 which said so much. "My dear brother Fran9ois — ■ 
 this is not to tell you how I have searched for you 
 and never forgotten you. I will tell you that when 
 I see you. This is to tell you how to get out of that 
 house of mine which has held you as a prisoner 
 when you ought to have been its welcome guest. 
 When Italy is free we will do that over; but we 
 must get you free first. Francois, I am now within 
 five miles of you — " 
 
 The man on his knees by the prison bed gasped; 
 the letters staggered before his eyes. 
 
 "I am living on a ship, and I will explain how I 
 got it when I see you, in a few days now, Franqois. 
 Every night for a week, beginning with to-night, 
 there will be a person watching for you in Riders' 
 Hollow, from midnight till daylight. After that we 
 shall go away for two weeks so as to avoid giving 
 suspicion, and then repeat the arrangement again 
 
2i8 THE MARSHAL 
 
 every night for a week. You do not know Riders' 
 Hollow, and it is unnecessary to tell you more about 
 it than that it is a lonely place hidden in trees, and 
 supposed to be haunted by ghosts of men on horse- 
 back ; the people about will not go there for love or 
 money except by broad daylight. 
 
 "This is the way you are to get there. In the 
 wine-cellar of the castle, which opens from the 
 governor's room — in old times always the room of 
 the lord — in that wine-cellar, on the north wall, is 
 a square block of stone projecting slightly beyond 
 the wall. If you press the lower corner on the left- 
 hand side, of the stone under this, the big stone 
 above will swing out and show an opening large 
 enough for a man to pass. Going through, you 
 close the door by pressing the same stone, and you 
 then will find yourself in an underground passage 
 which leads straight half a mile through the earth 
 to Riders' Hollow. The passage is five hundred 
 years old and only the family of the Zappis have 
 ever known of it. I went through it once in my 
 boyhood with my father, and it was in perfect con- 
 dition, so I believe that it will be now. It was built 
 with solidity — as one may believe, for if the old 
 Zappis wanted it at all they wanted it in working 
 order. 
 
A LOAF OF BREAD 219 
 
 "Your part will be difficult, Franqois, but I be- 
 lieve you can do it. You will have to get the key 
 of the wine-cellar, or else force the lock. Can you 
 do that ? It is necessary to do it, Franqois, for we 
 can not get on without you, and we shall from now 
 live only to set you free. I send you something 
 which may be useful." 
 
 Frangois dropped the letter and picked up the 
 long loaf and tore it apart. There was a file in the 
 center. As if a powerful tonic had been infused 
 into him he felt strength and calmness pour through 
 him. He read the letters over and over till he had 
 them by heart; then he concealed them carefully, 
 with the file, in his mattress. After that he sat 
 down and concentrated his mind, with the new force 
 working in it, on his plan. 
 
 The governor was almost certain to have him 
 down to dinner again in two or three days; it was 
 a pity that while he was there, all but on the spot, 
 he could not possess himself of the key and escape. 
 He thought over one or two plans on that basis, 
 but they all shipwrecked on the fact that the guards 
 were accustomed to take him back to his room at 
 eleven, and that, failing notice from the governor, 
 they would certainly come to find out why if they 
 were not called. That would start the pursuit; he 
 
220 THE MARSHAL 
 
 must have the night clear. So he unwillingly let 
 go of the great advantage of his own presence in 
 the governor's room, so near the scene of action, 
 and planned otherwise. With infinite forethought, 
 with an eye to every contingency possible to imag- 
 ine, he planned, and when the notice came, two days 
 later, that the Count von Gersdorf wished him to 
 dine with him that night, Frangois' heart leaped 
 madly but exultantly, for he was ready. 
 
 Never had the young Frenchman been more en- 
 tertaining, more winning to his tyrant than to-night, 
 but the excitement of what was before him made 
 it almost out of the question to eat the count's din- 
 ner. As before, the count prescribed old wine as 
 a tonic, and took Francois with him to get it. To- 
 night there were three bottles brought up — the count 
 was preparing to drink hard. And Francois had 
 some trouble in not drinking with him ; but he kept 
 up his end with singing and acting, with a dance or 
 two out of the peasant repertoire of the Jura, with 
 a mock drill of an awkward squad at Saint-Cyr, with 
 clever imitations of the few people whom he had 
 seen about the castle, Battista's gruffness and man- 
 gled German words, and the sniifling mixed with 
 grandiloquence of one of the guards; finally he 
 grew daring and imitated the governor's superior 
 
A LOAF OF BREAD 221 
 
 officer who had visited the prison six months ago 
 and had seen Franqois among the others. Fran- 
 qois, with his body bent out, and a fat waddle, and 
 an improvised eye-glass and a pursy short-breathed 
 manner, spoke of the governor severely, puffing at 
 him between sentences, reproving him, among other 
 things, for having prisoners dine with him. 
 
 And the governor roared with delight, for this 
 man was his rival and it did his soul good to see 
 him made ridiculous. He roared, and drank to the 
 imitation, and the imitation rebuked his levity 
 throatily, till the governor roared and drank again 
 and shouted for more. And Francois, excited, ex- 
 hilarated, did more ; and still the governor drank as 
 he acted. And the vaudeville went on. So that 
 when the guard came at eleven the count was lying 
 across the sofa, too tipsy to get to bed alone, and 
 Francois had to wait, pretending to be heavy with 
 wine himself, while the two soldiers put the gov- 
 ernor to bed. ' 
 
 At last he was taken up-stairs between them, 
 leaning on them limply; at last his door clanged 
 shut; he listened to the footsteps of the two dying 
 away down the stone hall, down the staircase; then 
 swiftly he drew out the file and the letters from his 
 mattress; he hid the papers, wrapped tight in their 
 
222 THE MARSHAL 
 
 oilskin cover, in his coat lining ; he set to worfe with 
 the file to finish iron bars already three-quarters 
 filed through. That was done and with fingers that 
 seemed to work as fast, as intelligently as his brain, 
 he tore the bedclothes into stout strips andr tied them 
 together with square knots which would not slip, 
 and tied knots in the line at intervals of a few feet 
 which might keep a man's fingers from slipping. 
 He had to guess how long the rope must be, but the 
 bedclothes were all used and the rope was many 
 yards — it must serve. He put the file, with two 
 candle ends which he had saved, in his pocket; he 
 made one end of the strip fast to an untouched iron 
 bar of his window ; he weighted the other end ; then 
 he looked about a moment, half to see if all of his 
 small resources had been remembered, half in a 
 glance of farewell to a place where he had passed 
 hours never to be forgotten. 
 
 With that he vaulted to the window-ledge and 
 took the first knot in a firm grip and let himself out 
 into the dark still night. His feet hung in the air, 
 his hand slid fast — fast — down that poor ladder of 
 torn stuff ; the die was cast ; he was going to things 
 unknown; he had taken a desperate chance and 
 might not go back. And he slipped down, down, 
 from knot to knot. Suddenly he came to the last 
 
A LOAF OF BREAD 223 
 
 knot; he had fastened a bit of wood there so that 
 he might know when he got to the end. What was 
 this ? It certainly was the last knot ; the bit of wood 
 scraped his hand as he held it; but his feet did not 
 touch ground. 
 
 There he hung, swaying in blackness, not know- 
 ing how far he might be above the earth, not know- 
 ing what to do. Only a moment, for instantly he 
 knew that in any case he could not go back, if he 
 would, up that slight swinging rope; he must drop, 
 whatever happened. He bent his knees ready for 
 the fall and let go. With a shock he landed and 
 rolled, bruised and out of breath, but not injured; 
 he looked up and in the dimness saw the last knot 
 with its bit of wood swinging in air twelve feet or 
 so from the ground. 
 
 But he had no time given him to consider this 
 point, for at that second, at the far end of the closed 
 yard a door opened, a blaze of light poured out, and 
 a squad of six soldiers stepped from the castle, 
 torches in the hands of the foremost. FranQois 
 dropped, crouching into the shadows against the 
 wall, but his heart grew sick as he realized the fu- 
 tility of this. The soldiers were coming straight 
 toward him. 
 
 With that, a gleam on a brighter surface than 
 
224 THE MARSHAL 
 
 the ground met his sight, below the level of the 
 ground. His eyes, searching the darkness, made 
 out a great butt of water, sunken by the castle wall. 
 Instantly he slid into it, up to his neck. It was not 
 quite full, and his head did not show in the shadows 
 of the inside. The blaze of the torches swept close, 
 brighter, as Franqois, shivering in the cold water, 
 glued himself to the dark side; the blaze of the 
 torches waved, shadowy, gigantic, across the water 
 and the castle wall ; he heard the soldiers speak in 
 short deep words ; it was like an evil dream, and it 
 slipped past, torches and dark-swinging shadows 
 and heavy tread of men and stern voices, like a 
 dream. The heavy door shut, the lights were gone, 
 everything was still. 
 
 More dead than alive, Francois dripped from the 
 water-butt. The hardest part of his night's job, the 
 part that needed all his strength of body and brain, 
 was immediately before him, and he stood nerve- 
 less, with clicking teeth, as limp as the traditional 
 drowned rat. A moment he stood so, utterly dis- 
 couraged, without confidence, without hope. Then 
 with his trembling lips he framed words, words 
 familiar to him for years, and with that, in a shock, 
 he felt strength and courage rising in him like a 
 slow calm flood. It was not less a mii-acle because 
 
A LOAF OF BREAD 225 
 
 there was no sign in the heavens, no earthquake or 
 lightning; it was not less a miracle because many 
 people living now might tell of a like help in fearful 
 need. As it was once a long time ago, the water of 
 his blood was changed into wine. So the prisoner 
 stood in the courtyard in the blackness of midnight 
 and found himself ready. 
 
 He groped his way to the shed he had seen from 
 the governor's window; with his old boyish agility 
 he scrambled up its sloping roof and felt for the 
 coping he had noticed — the coping wide enough for 
 a man's foot; he had found it; he had found a 
 water-pipe above to help him stand on it; he was 
 on the coping, face flat to the wall, working his way 
 with infinite delicate care to the window of the 
 governor. He never knew how long that part took ; 
 it seemed a great while, though not many feet lay 
 between the shed and the window. Then he felt the 
 stone sill of the window; his hand crept up; it was 
 open — wide open. With a strong pull he had swung 
 himself over and stood in the dark, in the governor's 
 bedroom. 
 
 Stood and listened, hardly daring for the first in- 
 stant to draw the long breath he sorely needed. Then 
 he smiled. No necessity for that caution at least. 
 The governor was snoring a heavy aggressive snore 
 
226 THE MARSHAL 
 
 which would have drowned most noises. Francois 
 stood quiet till his eyes had grown accustomed to 
 the shadows, and then they searched about quickly. 
 Ah ! there they were, the governor's clothes. On a 
 chair by his bed. With wary steps he stole across. 
 He lifted off one or two things and suddenly there 
 was a jingle. 
 
 "Ah!" growled the governor and flung out his 
 hand, and the snore came to a full stop. 
 
 The hand searched the darkness a second ; all but 
 touched that of Frangois, then fell limply, the head 
 turned away, with a deep sigh. Like a statue Fran- 
 cois stood, frozen to the floor, and dared not look 
 at the figure stirring in the bed, for fear his gaze 
 might awake the sleeper. For he slept; the sound 
 of the keys had only jarred some chord in his uneasy 
 dream. Long minutes after the snoring was in full 
 progress again Franqois waited, and then with care- 
 ful fingers he clasped the entire bunch of keys softly 
 and carried them into the next room. 
 
 There was a low light there, on the writing-table. 
 Frangois slipped the thin, old, brass key which he 
 knew off from the bunch ; he glanced about quickly 
 and found the flint and steel on its table and put 
 them in his pocket ; he took down that small saber, 
 with its well-polished scabbard, and buckled it about 
 
A LOAF OF BREAD 227 
 
 himself; then a thought came to him. A sheet of 
 paper lay on the governor's writing-table as if he 
 had been about to write a letter; pen and ink were 
 ready. The prisoner dropped into the governor's 
 chair and wrote : 
 
 "My dear Count, I can not run away without 
 leaving a good-by for you and a word of thanks 
 for the kindness you have shown me. Be sure 
 I shall not forget our evenings together and shall 
 be glad when I hear of your promotion, as I am 
 sure I shall hear. I heartily hope I am not go- 
 ing to make trouble for you. But I have to go — 
 you will understand that. With a thousand thanks 
 again I am, Count, your grateful prisoner — Fran- 
 cois Beaupre." And under the signature by an after 
 inspiration he wrote : 
 
 "De tons cote's I' on dit que je suis bete — 
 Cela se peut! Et cependant j'en ris." 
 
 Still the count snored. Franqois, alert, stood and 
 listened as he folded the note carefully and laid it 
 under a weight on the table. Then he tempted Prov- 
 idence no longer. He slid the battered, bright, old, 
 brass key softly into the lock, let himself into the 
 dark stairway, relocked the door on the inside. 
 
228 THE MARSHAL 
 
 groped his way painfully down the steep stairs into 
 the wine-cellar, and when he felt a level floor under 
 his feet struck a light with the governor's flint and 
 steel. He lighted one of his candle ends. The wine- 
 cellar, which he had left only two hours before, 
 seemed almost homelike ; it lacked the governor, that 
 was all. He crossed to the projecting stone in the 
 north wall, and pressed the corner of the stone be- 
 low. Nothing happened. Hurriedly he pressed it 
 again, harder, but the cold even surface of the wall 
 stared him blankly in the face. Again he pushed — 
 with no result. A sickness came over him. Was, all 
 his labor and peril to go for nothing? Was he to 
 be caught agaiii and thrust back, this time into some 
 far worse dungeon? How had he dared to hope! 
 The entrance was closed, overgrown, the masonry 
 had grown solid with years and dampness. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE PEASANT GUIDE 
 
 HE flashed out the saber and desperately he 
 slid it this way and that about the great stone, 
 trying to find a crack, something to loosen, some- 
 thing that would give. And while he worked in a 
 fever, in a chill, he remembered Pietro's letter. 
 
 Then he set down the candle end on a shelf and 
 with trembling fingers drew off his coat and drew 
 out the hidden papers. The wet from his bath in 
 the water-butt had stained them a little, but only a 
 little, for they were carefully wrapped in the bit of 
 oilskin in which they had come. He unfolded the 
 letter. 
 
 "If you will press the lower corner on the left- 
 hand side," Pietro said — "the lower corner !" 
 
 And he had been concentrating all his efforts, all 
 his despair, on the upper corner. When it is a ques- 
 tion of life and death a man is superhumanly strong 
 and quick sometimes, but he is also sometimes for- 
 getful. It is an exciting and confusing thing, likely, 
 229 
 
230 THE MARSHAL 
 
 to be working for life and liberty after five years of 
 imprisonment. Franqois pushed the lower left-hand 
 corner and like magic the great block above swung 
 out. With his lighted candle end in his hand he 
 slipped through and turned and swung back the 
 door into place and turned again and faced black- 
 ness. Narrow, low, cold blackness. Quickly enough, 
 however, with good courage, with his heart thump- 
 ing out a song of hope, which he had kept down 
 sternly till now, he walked, at times stooping low 
 as he must because of the descent, down the secret 
 road of the old Zappis. His candle held forward, 
 he could see a few feet ahead, but all he could see 
 was huge blocks of rough stone, green with mold, 
 water dripping between them. The air he breathed 
 was heavy and thick; through his wet clothes he 
 felt a chill as of the grave. But what mattered the 
 road, when the road led to freedom? 
 
 Suddenly it came to him that the passage might 
 be blocked. It was years since Pietro had been 
 through it; some of the stones might have fallen — 
 it would take very little to close so narrow a way. 
 With an anxiety which was physical pain, with 
 breathless eagerness now, he hurried on. He had to 
 stop to light his second candle ; again he hurried on. 
 Would the end never come ? Was any mistake pos- 
 
THE PEASANT GUIDE 231 
 
 sible? With that he stumbled against something 
 and fell, and the candle flew from his hand and was 
 put out; with a hoarse groan he threw out an arm 
 to steady himself, to rise ; his hand went through a 
 yielding, prickly mass ; a glimmer came in past it — 
 light — ^the end! 
 
 Pushing, crashing, staggering through, he came 
 into a strange place. It was as if a giant had taken 
 a huge spoon and scooped out the top of the earth 
 deep, very deep. All of this great hollow was filled 
 with trees and tangled undergrowth. It was full 
 of vague shadows in the glimmer of earliest dawn. 
 Franqois, standing there sobbing, ghastly with pale- 
 ness, with matted hair and wild-staring eyes and 
 gasping mouth and wet torn clothes, was a fit de- 
 mon for the haunted spot. He saw nothing, no one ; 
 with that there- was a soft snapping of twigs and 
 a movement in the darkness farthest from him; a 
 movement toward him. Tottering he crawled to 
 meet it; in another second the shadows had shaped 
 into figures — a peasant boy on a horse, leading an- 
 other horse. 
 
 Then he stood close to them, and the boy, leaning 
 over without a word put something into his hand, 
 and Frangois, swaying with exhaustion, saw that 
 it was a flask. He took a long swallow of cognac 
 
232 THE MARSHAL 
 
 and his chilled blood leaped, and with that he had 
 caught the bridle from the lad and was in the saddle. 
 
 Silently, without a word spoken, they climbed the 
 shadowy slope under the overhanging trees of Rid- 
 ers' Hollow. Silently, fast, they rode through the 
 pale darkness, through the slow-coming day, down 
 wooded roads, across fields, always toward the sea. 
 Steadily the day came; now they were galloping 
 most of the time, only pulling in to let the horses 
 breathe going up a hill, or to guard them from 
 stumbling down one. 
 
 In the shadows of trees, in a lonely lane, the peas- 
 ant boy stopped his horse suddenly and made a short 
 gesture toward the flask sticking out of Frangois' 
 coat pocket. His strength was going again ; it was 
 exactly the right moment. Another swallow of 
 brandy and he rode on with fresh courage. But 
 -something in the gesture of the peasant boy; some- 
 thing about his seat in the saddle, about the touch 
 of his hands on the rein, gave Franqois a curious 
 undefined shock. In the growing daylight he turned 
 toward the silent rider. The coat collar was up 
 and the broad-brimmed soft hat drawn down. The 
 slim figure, outlined against the cool pink vastness 
 of the morning sky was clad like an ordinary young 
 peasant — ^yet! There was a poise, a sure grace, 
 
THE PEASANT GUIDE 233 
 
 which seemed unlike a peasant, which seemed like — ' 
 
 "Have we far to go?" Franqois demanded sud- 
 denly in French. 
 
 The head turned swiftly; black exaggerated 
 lashes lifted and under them were the blue eyes he 
 knew. 
 
 "AUxe." 
 
 He cried it out loud, reckless, forgetting every- 
 thing. But she did not forget. In an instant her 
 hand was on his mouth, and she was whispering in 
 terror. 
 
 "Frangois, dear Frangois, be careful. We are 
 not safe yet. We have a village to ride through — 
 see, there is a house. It is almost time for them to 
 be awake. Ride fast. It is two miles yet." 
 
 They were racing again over the soft ground, the 
 horses' unshod feet making little noise, and Fran- 
 cois' heart was playing mad music. No need now 
 of cognac. Then they were galloping down the 
 sand of a lonely beach, and with that there was a 
 little group of people and a boat drawn up; and 
 they had pulled in the horses, and Frangois felt 
 himself lifted off like a child and lying like a very 
 little, worn-out child in the general's arms ; and the 
 general was crying, swearing, hugging him without 
 shame. Pietro was there; Pietro was rubbing the 
 
234 THE MARSHAL; 
 
 thin hands in a futile useless sort of way, and hold- 
 ing them by turns to his face. Alixe, her peasant 
 hat off now, bent over them, lovelier than ever be- 
 fore, not minding her boy's dress, and smiled at 
 him, wordless. There was a huge man also who 
 took the horses, and Frangois wondered if he had 
 heard aright that Alixe called him "little Battista". 
 Wondering very much at everything, the voices 
 grew far away and the faces uncertain, and he de- 
 cided that it was without doubt a dream and that 
 Battista would unlock the door shortly and bring in 
 his breakfast. And with that he knew nothing more 
 till he awoke in a boat. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 REST AND SAFETY 
 
 HE heard the sound of waves outside, the slip- 
 ping of ropes, the flapping of sails. He kept 
 his eyes closed a few minutes, not daring to open 
 them. There was a blessed atmosphere of rest and 
 safety about him; he feared to find it unreal if he 
 opened his eyes. He feared to find himself in the 
 straw of a dungeon. He listened attentively — 
 surely sails and cordage and slapping waves — and 
 then he was aware of the motion of a boat. Cau- 
 tiously he peered from under half-closed lids. A 
 small room, a boat's cabin; nothing to tell if he 
 were in the hands of friends or of enemies. Yet — 
 was it a dream that he had seen the general and 
 Pietro, had ridden long miles in the dawn , with 
 Alixe ? Such dreams come to comfort poor prison- 
 ers — ^he knew that. But at that point his eyes flashed 
 wide and his arms flew out. Something more had 
 crept into that circumscribed field of his vision — a 
 235 
 
236 THE MARSHAL 
 
 quiet figure sitting in a dark corner of the little 
 room. 
 
 "Alixe!" 
 
 Not a dream, not another world; just the close 
 sweetness of her face bent over him, of her hands 
 holding his, of her courageous soft voice speaking 
 to him caressingly as if he were a child, as if he 
 were dear to her. 
 
 "You must not talk, Frangois. After a while — 
 not yet. You are very weak." 
 
 So he smiled and lay happily, clutching her hand 
 with his long, hot, shaking fingers, like a bird's 
 claws for thinness. But a hunted beast may not 
 rest absolutely till it knows if the bloodhounds are 
 distanced. The cavernous eyes turned on Alixe with 
 a question, and she understood. 
 
 "You want to know if you are safe, dear Fran- 
 cois?" and she stroked his hand. "Yes. You are 
 on the boat of little Battista — Luigi's boat it is now. 
 Little Battista gave it to Luigi when he went to 
 France, and Luigi is his friend and also one of 
 Pietro's people. You will hear about that later. 
 We are going now to the harbor of Commachio, 
 sixty miles from Castelforte. You are to be put on 
 board a big ship there, and taken away to safety. 
 Yet you are safe now — rest in that, for it is true." 
 
REST AND SAFETY 237 
 
 And Frangois drew a deep trembling breath and, 
 holding Alixe's hand, fell asleep. 
 
 When he awoke next his eyes opened swiftly and 
 turned to the corner where Alixe had sat. It was 
 not Alixe there this time, but the general. And the 
 general came and sat down by him and patted his 
 hand and swore softly at him saying, "sabre de 
 hois," and "nom d'un chien," and such things; and 
 called him his own boy, and told him how his 
 mother and father were well and confident of his 
 rescue ; yes, and told him also how it was Alixe who 
 had waited every night for him in Riders' Hollow, 
 and would let no one take her place. 
 
 "It was the best arrangement," said the general. 
 "For Pietro is too well known — it would have been 
 unsafe for you both. And I am so much the old 
 officer that I should have been remarked instantly; 
 also I am heavy in the saddle. But Alixe passed 
 easily for some peasant lad with a led horse for his 
 master; also she rides light and so could save the 
 horses, which was important, for only two horses 
 could we have and they were to be in service one 
 knew not how long." 
 
 Francois asked a feeble question. 
 
 "Ah — Pietro. He is a fine sort, our Pietro. They 
 adore him, here in his country. There is a farmer 
 
238 THE MARSHAL 
 
 back there who owed life and home to the Zappis, 
 to Pietro's father and mother. The horses were 
 his. They were brought after dark and returned 
 before sunrise, but it was far, and hard on the 
 beasts. And a risk for the good Giuseppi ; but he 
 was glad to serve Pietro; they adore Pietro." 
 
 Quite malapropos, the general leaned over at this 
 point and stretched out a heavy hand and patted 
 Franqois' pale cheek and smiled and said, as he had 
 said so many years ago on that morning when the 
 news came of the marquis' death, "It is a good 
 thing to have a son, my Franqois." And Frangois, 
 being fed shortly after, fell asleep again like a tired 
 baby. 
 
 And the next time he awoke it was with a new 
 feeling ; with a desire and a hope to live. Pietro sat 
 watching him and brought him warm milk and held 
 his head up as he drank it, like a woman. Then, in 
 quiet slow tones, he explained all the puzzle which 
 Franqois had by now begun to wonder over. It 
 seemed that just before little Battista had brought 
 Francois' letter to Vieques, Pietro had received an- 
 other unexpected letter, from a Colonel HamptM 
 in Virginia, whose estate lay next the six thousand 
 acres of land which the Marquis Zappi had bought 
 fifteen years before. Colonel Hampton wrote with 
 
Holding Alixe's hand, Frangois fell asleep. 
 
^.- 
 
REST AND SAFETY 
 
 239 
 
 two requests. The first was that the Marquis Zappi 
 should come to Virginia, or send some one with 
 authority to look after his property. The land was 
 going to rack and ruin for want of management; 
 the uncontrolled slaves on the place were demoral- 
 izing to the neighborhood. Colonel Hampton had 
 done what he could, but he had not the power of a 
 master, and moreover he was busy with his own 
 large estate. The marquis should come or send a 
 qualified agent and at once. 
 
 The next object of the letter was to ask that the 
 marquis should receive and entertain the nephew of 
 Colonel Hampton, Mr. Henry Hampton, who, sail- 
 ing on Colonel Hampton's ship, the Lovely Lucy, 
 would bring this letter to the marquis. The ship 
 would go first to England and discharge there her 
 cargo of tobacco, and after that it was to be at the 
 service of young Mr. Hampton, to visit such coun- 
 tries of Europe as he might choose, for six months. 
 Mr. Hampton had many letters to people in Eng- 
 land, but none elsewhere, and Colonel Hampton 
 would be obliged if the marquis would receive him 
 at his estate of Castelforte and let him see something 
 of Italy from that point of vantage. The marquis 
 might then, if he thought good, return to Virginia 
 in the Lovely Lucy, and either set matters on a firm 
 
240 THE MARSHAL 
 
 enough footing to be left, or else — which the colonel 
 considered the better plan — stay with them and be- 
 come a country gentleman of Virginia. The colonel 
 had heard that there had been political trouble in 
 Italy, but hoped that at this time the country was 
 at peace and the marquis comfortably established in 
 his own castle. 
 
 All this the young marquis, an exile of five years 
 from his native land, had read at the chateau of 
 Vieques. He had considered deeply as to what he 
 might do about Carnifax, his estate in Virginia. He 
 could not go himself, for he was in close connection 
 with the work of Italian patriots outside and inside 
 of Italy; with Mazzini in London; with others in 
 other places. And he did not know any one whom 
 he could send. 
 
 So the matter stood when the big little Battista 
 had brought Franqois' letter to Vieques. And when 
 Alixe had appealed to him to take Franqois' libera- 
 tion on his shoulders, with the thought of the secret 
 passage and the vaguely outlined plan of escape had 
 come to him the recollection of Colonel Hampton's 
 ktter and the long sea voyage to Virginia. 
 
 So when Mr. Henry Hampton landed at Calais, 
 a tall and very handsome and very silent young 
 man took quiet possession of him and told him that 
 
REST AND SAFETY 241 
 
 he was the Marquis Zappi and that Mr. Hampton 
 was to go with him to the chateau of Vieques in the 
 Jura. There was a certain gentle force about this 
 young marquis which made opposition to his ex- 
 pressed wish something like banging one's head 
 against a stone wall. Mr. Henry Hampton had 
 planned going direct to Paris, but he went to 
 Vieques. And on the journey down the Marquis 
 Zappi opened out a plan which richly rewarded him 
 for his pliability. Mr. Hampton had somewhat 
 clearer ideas on Italian politics than his uncle; he 
 knew enough to detest the Austrians and to have a 
 keen sympathy for the long, heroic, losing fight — so 
 far losing — of those devoted men who were count- 
 ing their lives as nothing for a united Italy. The 
 scheme of helping to rescue a prisoner out of an 
 Austrian fortress was an adventure such as made 
 his eyes dance. Mr. Hampton was twenty-one and 
 full of romance, romance as yet ungratified. So, 
 Pietro told Franqois, this long explanation over, the 
 Lovely Lucy was anchored at an unimportant island 
 outside the port for which they were bound, and 
 Francois and the others were to go on board and 
 set sail promptly for some port of France. There 
 the general, Alixe, Pietro and little Battista were 
 to be put ashore, and Francois was to sail across to 
 
242 THE MARSHAH 
 
 Virginia with Mr. Hampton and tafe possession for 
 Pietro of his American estates. 
 
 FranQois, lying in bed with his eyes glowing like 
 lanterns, listened. But as his friend finished he 
 broke out, with a sharp pain in his voice. 
 
 "Pietro ! I want to see my mother." 
 
 And Pietro was silent, laying a quiet hand over 
 the unsteady one. Without a word he sat so and 
 let the sick man think. The line of red which came 
 into the pale cheeks told that he was thinking in- 
 tensely, and at last, with a shivering sigh which went 
 to the other's heart : 
 
 "You are right, Pietro," he said. "It is a won- 
 derful plan for a broken man. It is like you to do 
 everything right without a word said. The sea voy- 
 age, the healthy life in Virginia — ^that ought to make 
 a man of me again soon, ought it not, Pietro ?" 
 
 Pietro could not speak as he looked at the wrecked 
 figure, but he nodded cheerfully. 
 
 "As for your place, I'll have that in order in a 
 month, and in a year it will be a model for Virginia; 
 and then I'll come home." 
 
 Pietro smiled. 
 
 "Come home and fight for the Prince — for our 
 Prince Louis. Do you remember that afternoon at 
 the chateau, Pietro, and the strange boy, and how 
 
REST AND SAFETY 243 
 
 he fascinated us and how — " the weak voice stopped 
 at every few syllables, but slipped on again cheer- 
 fully. The familiar charm of the boy Franqois was 
 strong as he talked. "And how he was not to be 
 frightened by any danger of an old wall — " and 
 Franqois stopped, smiling. 
 
 "And how you saved him," Pietro added. 
 
 "That was a chance," said Frangois quickly. 
 "But, Pietro, do you remember how Alixe turned 
 on you, because I had done it? Droll little Alixe!" 
 
 "She always scorned me because I was not won- 
 derful like you, Franqois. You were always the 
 hero," Pietro said gently, and pressed the skeleton 
 hand under his own. 
 
 Frangois' eyes blazed up at him then as they had 
 done so often in boyhood. "Not that, Pietro. You 
 do not understand. It was because Alixe wished 
 always to see you first. I was older and had a cer- 
 tain quickness — she wanted you to have my poor 
 facility as well as all of your own gifts." 
 
 Pietro smiled his kind quiet smile. "My Fran- 
 cois, I have no gifts. And if Alixe is more proud 
 of you it is right, for you are a pride to all of us 
 and I am the last to grudge one particle of honor 
 or love to you. Frangois" — Pietro's deep voice 
 stopped, and then he went on in his straightforward. 
 
244 THE MARSHAL' 
 
 simple way — "Frangois, it is not possible for me to 
 tell you how glad I am to have you, my brother, 
 back from the dead." 
 
 And weak, nerve-wrecked Frangois, holding tight 
 to Pietro's hand, turned his face to the wall and 
 cried. 
 
 Now that the end of effort was over, the strain 
 of the long years showed their effects in a collapse; 
 the stretched chord had fallen loose, relaxed as if 
 it might never make music again. When the time 
 came to leave the sail-boat of Luigi and go aboard 
 the Lovely Lucy, the effort was too much for the 
 man who, two nights before, had shown the nerve 
 and agility of an acrobat. When he must leave the 
 boat and make the change, he fainted, and, wrapped 
 in a blanket, ghastly white, unconscious, the little 
 Battista carried his light weight up the ladder of the 
 American ship. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE SACRIFICE 
 
 YOUNG Henry Hampton, thrilled to the core at 
 this drama, bent over him, as Battista laid him 
 on the deck, and looked up anxiously at Pietro. 
 
 "Is he living?" he asked. 
 
 He was living, though for an hour or two the de- 
 voted friends who cared for him doubted if they 
 had not got him back only to lose him. But that last 
 effort of the change to the ship being past, when 
 consciousness came again he grew strong more rap- 
 idly. 
 
 "I thought — the Austrians — ^would nab me — ^as I 
 came aboard," he whispered, smiling gaily as he 
 gasped the words to Alixe. "It was — firm in my 
 mind." 
 
 And Alixe laughed at him and told him that they 
 were far out on the Adriatic now, safe under the 
 American flag, and the Austrians left two hundred 
 miles behind. 
 
 245 
 
246 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "Even if they had — nabbed me," whispered Fran- 
 qois, "those two days with you would have paid." 
 
 And Alixe shuddered a little and told him to go 
 to sleep and stop thinking of Austrians, for they 
 were out of his life now forever. 
 
 "My Seigneur," said Francois next day when the 
 general took his turn at sitting by his bed, "may I 
 ask a question ?" 
 
 "Any question in the world, Frangois, my son," 
 the general growled at him, as if the tender words 
 were a defiance to an enemy. 
 
 Frangois hesitated. "About Alixe and Pietro." 
 
 The general shook his head. "Ah that ! That I 
 can not tell you, Frangois. Sometimes I believe that 
 I have been mistaken, that — " the general as he 
 stopped looked oddly at Frangois and smiled. 
 "Sometimes I believe that even I, even Gaspard 
 Gourgaud, might make a mistake in trying to play 
 the good God, and arranging lives. That might be — 
 yes. In any case I can not tell." 
 
 Franqois, thinking deeply, hazarded another ques- 
 tion. "He loves her ?" 
 
 "I believe so, indeed," said the general. "He 
 cares most to be with us — with her. Ah yes, I have 
 no doubt that he loves her. But why it goes no far- 
 ther — sapristi! It is beyond me — ^that! I would 
 
THE SACRIFICE 247 
 
 knock their foolish heads together, me — but that 
 is not convenient." 
 
 "Does she love Pietro ?" 
 
 "Mon Dieu! How can a mere man say that? She 
 is a woman. I do not know — not in the least," the 
 general exploded at him. 
 
 "But Pietro loves her?" Francois asked again, his 
 wistful smiling eyes searching the general's face. 
 
 "Yes — I am sure of it." 
 
 And Francois smiled. 
 
 "No one could help it," he said half to himself. 
 
 In a day more little Battista came into Francois' 
 cabin and put clothes on him and wrapped him like 
 a mummy in coats and rugs, and carried him in his 
 arms up on deck, and there laid him in a hammock 
 on the sunny side of the ship. And the salt air blew 
 on his face and he gulped it in, and by and by Alixe 
 brought a chair and sat by him and read to him, and 
 Francois lay quiet and wondered if heaven could be 
 any improvement on this. 
 
 Then, after a while, the book lay on the girl's 
 knee, and they fell to talking. She told him about 
 his mother and his father at the Ferme du Val, and 
 the brothers and sisters, grown up now, and some 
 of them in homes of their own. She told him about 
 Pierre's new wife, who had been Jeanne Courtois, of 
 
248 THE MARSHAL 
 
 Beaulieu, and how much they all liked her, and how 
 she and Pierre lived at the farm and were to have 
 it one day after the older Frangois and Claire had 
 gone. About Tomas and his fine big shop at Deles- 
 montes she told him, and how little Lucie had mar- 
 ried the school-teacher, and had a pretty house in 
 a street he knew well. 
 
 Then she told him about the animals — how the 
 great gray horses he had known still drew the gold- 
 en loads of hay in from the fields, with their grand- 
 children drawing the next wagon. How the ducks 
 in the pond were hundreds now and were sent to the 
 market, and made much money for Le Franqois. 
 And how that old gift of his in choosing oxen was 
 making a fortune for him — only now he never 
 played cards coming home from market day, — or 
 at any other time. In fact, the gentle mother had 
 made one stern rule for her family — no one of them 
 ever played since that time a game of chance. 
 
 And then Alixe told Frangois about the castle. 
 She told him about Jean Phillippe Moison and his 
 brazen curiosity in staying to hear the prisoner's 
 letter, and his address of thanks to the Almighty 
 when he knew that Frangois was alive. And she 
 told him about little old Coq — now an aged horse 
 of twenty-five years, spoiled and naughty, but yet 
 
THE SACRIFICE 249 
 
 beloved and used only for his own health's sake; 
 she told how Coq would run to her for sugar and 
 burrow his bold nose into her coat pocket, snorting 
 impatiently ; and how he had thrown Moison's little 
 girl over his head two months before as he used to 
 throw all of them. 
 
 So, on that long, bright, calm morning at sea 
 FranQois lay in the hammock and watched the mil- 
 lion little waves glisten and break for unknown miles 
 over the sunlit water, and listened to the voice he 
 loved best in the world, as it told him of those others 
 whom he loved also, and of the places dear to him ; 
 and he wondered that he had indeed come through 
 the long nightmare of prison to this happiness. 
 
 "Mr. Hampton has been talking to me about Vir- 
 ginia; it must be a beautiful country," said Alixe. 
 "I should love the free friendly life of those great 
 domains. I believe I could leave France and Vie- 
 ques for such a country as that, where there are no 
 political volcanoes on top of which one must live. 
 With us it is always plotting and secrecy. Al- 
 ways a war to look back on or to look forward to. 
 I should like to go to Virginia." 
 
 "But," said Frangois, with his great eyes glowing, 
 "the war one now looks forward to in France will be 
 short and glorious. And after that will be peace. 
 
2SO THE MARSHAL 
 
 for there will be a Bonaparte ruling, and that means 
 strength and good government." 
 
 "How you believe in the Great Captain and in 
 his blood," and Alixe smiled down at the pale face 
 on fire with its lifelong enthusiasm. 
 
 "One must," said Frangois simply, and paused, 
 and went on. "For me — ^you know, Alixe, how it 
 is. How the star of the Bonapartes has always 
 seemed to be my star ! I believe that. I believe that 
 my life is tied to that house. Napoleon was more 
 than human to my mind, and his touch set me aside 
 for his uses in my cradle." 
 
 "And made you a Chevalier," Alixe considered. 
 "That was a true accolade, Franqois. You would 
 have a right to that title under another Bonaparte." 
 
 "I believe so, Alixe." 
 
 "And my father believes it. So you must hurry 
 and get well and come back to France and be fit 
 for work when the Prince needs you, Chevalier 
 Beaupre. My father has told you that a movement 
 is preparing? He is reckless, my father, and it 
 troubles me. It might be unsafe for him to live 
 in France if his part, in these plots were known." 
 
 "Then you could come to Virginia — to Carnifax," 
 and Francois smiled. 
 
 But Alixe flushed. "That is Pietro's estate, not 
 
THE SACRIFICE 251 
 
 ours," she said quickly; and then she rose and bent 
 over the sick boy. "I must go to my father now," 
 she said, and caught his pitiful hands suddenly in 
 both hers. "But oh! Frangois, I wish I could tell 
 you how it changes all the world to have you back 
 again" — and she was gone. 
 
 Franqois, trembling with a rapture he could not 
 quiet, lay, not stirring, because he feared to break 
 the spell of the touch of her hands; feeling within 
 him a rebel hope that yet he would not let take 
 hold of him. Could it be ? Was it true ? Did she 
 care for him and not for Pietro? Was that the 
 reason that in all these years she and Pietro were 
 still only sister and brother? Yet, he caught and 
 choked the thought. Even then he had no right, 
 he could not, would not tell her what she was to 
 him. He would be Pietro's friend always as he had 
 promised long ago; more, a thousand times more 
 now, when Pietro had given back to him freedom 
 and life and hope. Pietro loved her; she would 
 come to love Pietro in time; he would never take 
 her from him, even if he could. What was his own 
 happiness compared to that of these two so close 
 and dear? And also it was a bitter bliss to sacri- 
 fice his joy for that of his seigneur, for the man 
 who had given him everything. To Franqois, smil- 
 
252 THE MARSHAL" 
 
 ing out at the sunny ocean, giving up the love of 
 his life, came that other blessedness of renunciation, 
 and he was happy. 
 
 The next day the general and Alixe and Pietro 
 and the little Battista were put ashore in France, 
 and the Lovely Lucy sailed on with young Henry 
 Hampton and Francois to Virginia. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 A SOCIAL CRISIS 
 
 ON a day the ship sailed into a splendid road- 
 stead, big enough to hold the ships of half 
 the world. Then into a wide flashing river, the 
 James River, four or five miles wide down there at 
 its mouth. And up and up and up the bright river, 
 the narrowing river, between its low green banks, 
 with now and again a glimpse of a large house and 
 of gardens and lawns green with June, as one sailed 
 past. 
 
 Harry Hampton told Franqois who lived in them 
 as they went by — Harrisons and Carters and Byrds 
 and Randolphs — strange-sounding, difficult, English 
 names in the ear of the Frenchman. Young Mr. 
 Hampton knew them all, it seemed ; many of them 
 were his cousins ; Frangois listened, surprised, inter- 
 ested, to the word picture which the Virginian un- 
 consciously drew, as he talked of every-day happen- 
 ings, of a society and a way of living quite different 
 from any the Frenchman had ever heard of. 
 253 
 
254 THE MARSHAL 
 
 With that they were in sight of Roanoke House — 
 one might see the roofs of the buildings over the 
 trees — Harry Hampton pointed it out with a touch 
 of excitement in his grave manner. Then, as one 
 slipped along the sparkling water, there was a sharp 
 bend in the stream, and as they turned it the large 
 silvery green slope of the lawn lay before them, 
 with its long wharf and barges lying at the water- 
 side, and a ship unloading its return cargo from 
 England. 
 
 "It is the Sea Ladyy called young Hampton. "She 
 is in before us — and she sailed so long after." 
 
 He made a quick movement forward with his 
 pathetic broken step — for this only son of the Hamp- 
 ton family was a cripple. 
 
 There were people gathering on the lawn, negroes 
 drawn up in line ; the women in bright-colored tur- 
 bans, men and women both showing white teeth as 
 they grinned with the pleasure and the excitement 
 of watching the ship come in. Then a white light 
 figure ran down the broad greenness, and a girl 
 stood, golden curls on her shoulders, a straw hat 
 with blue ribbons tying down some of the golden 
 curls, but not all — stood and watched, and waved an 
 eager friendly hand. 
 
 "It is my cousin Lucy," Harry Hampton said, 
 
A SOCIAL CRISIS 255 
 
 and Franqois, looking at him, saw his eyes fixed on 
 her intently. 
 
 In a few minutes more, leaving the ship with his 
 halting careful step, Francois saw him kiss her 
 cousinly — ^yet it seemed not altogether cousinly — 
 and with that he was saying a word about "My 
 new friend, the Chevalier Beaupre," and the girl's 
 quick hand-clasp and the warm welcome in her voice 
 of honey, made Francois feel as if a place in her 
 friendship had been waiting for him always. 
 
 Then, from back of her, from somewhere, tower- 
 ed suddenly a tall man, with large features, and 
 first seized Harry Hampton's hand and then turned 
 to the stranger with the same air of entire pleasure 
 and hopitality. 
 
 "My nephew's friend is welcome at Roanoke 
 House," he said, and Frangois, with his few words 
 of English, understood enough to be warmed to the 
 soul at his first contact with southern hospitality. 
 
 "It is my uncle. Colonel Hampton," Harry's 
 voice was explaining. 
 
 They would not hear of his going to Carnifax — 
 not for days, not for a month; why should he go 
 at all? — Colonel Hampton asked. If he were to be 
 only a year or two in Virginia, why trouble to set 
 up housekeeping alone in that big house, when Roan- 
 
256 THE MARSHAL 
 
 oke House was here and in order, and only too glad 
 to keep him. So Franqois for a week or two stayed. 
 And found himself, shortly, a notability. Harry 
 Hampton, his boyish ambition for adventure and 
 daring denied every personal outlet, because of that 
 accident in babyhood which had started him in life 
 hopelessly lame, was as proud of his salvage from 
 the Austrian bird of prey as if Franqois' record 
 had been his own. Much more frankly proud, for 
 he could talk about it, and did. Alixe had told him 
 a great deal, and the episode of the headlong rescue 
 of Prince Louis Napoleon, the capture and imprison- 
 ment and final theatrical escape, went like wild-fire, 
 about the countryside, and stirred all the romance of 
 the warm-blooded southerners. Every house want- 
 ed the hero to break bread, and under young Harry's 
 proud wing Franqois went gladly to meet all these 
 friends of his friend. As the general had said years 
 ago, his simplicity struck the finest note of sophisti- 
 cated high breeding; moreover, he had lived with 
 high-bred people in more than one country ; the aris- 
 tocrats of Virginia were delighted with his young 
 nobleman, as they thought him — ^with his charm of 
 manner and his stirring history, with the lines of 
 suffering still in his thin face and the broad lock 
 of gray — the badge of that suffering — in his dark 
 
A SOCIAL CRISIS 257 
 
 hair; with the quaint foreign accent too, and the 
 unexpectedness in the turns of his rapidly increas- 
 ing English. 
 
 Franqois accepted the title of Chevalier, which 
 Alixe had given him in speaking to Henry Hamp- 
 ton, and which Henry Hampton used in introduc- 
 ing him to the noblesse of the South, partly because 
 he believed it his, partly because it pleased the child- 
 like French vanity in him. He had no thought of 
 claiming a social position not his own; no thought 
 that a social position might count with these hospit- 
 able new friends. Names known in American his- 
 tory were spoken at the dinner-table of those days 
 in Virginia. 
 
 "It is the Chevalier Beaupfe, Mr. Clay," Lucy 
 Hampton answered a question from a tall man with 
 a great domed head. 
 
 She was placed next him at a dinner at Martin's 
 Brandon, the old home of the Harrisons. "The 
 young man with the band of white in his hair — 
 it is the Chevalier Beaupre — of France. He is stay- 
 ing at Roanoke." And she went on eagerly to give 
 a quick summary of the history of this stranger, 
 whose personality attracted the interest of so dis- 
 tinguished a person. As she talked, Henry Clay, of 
 Kentucky, bending to listen to her sliding speech. 
 
258 THE MARSHAL 
 
 watched, under his deep brow, the man across the 
 table. 
 
 "It is a good deal of history for a man of twenty- 
 six," Clay considered, and with that his resonant 
 assured voice lifted across the talk of the dinner- 
 table. "Chevalier Beaupre!" 
 
 Francois turned swiftly, and his great dark eyes 
 met the piercing look of the great statesman. "Mais 
 out. Monsieur" — ^he dropped back into his own 
 tongue at a sudden touch, always. 
 
 Careless of the silence which fell on the long table, 
 Henry Clay went on in his clear masterful tones. 
 "Miss Hampton tells me that you are of the Bona- 
 partist side of French politics. That interests me. 
 I should like to get an idea of the strength of that 
 faction in France. You come, I suppose, of a 
 Bonapartist family. Was your house royalist be- 
 fore the revolution? And in what part of France 
 did your lands lie ?" 
 
 The twenty odd people, leaders of the Virginian 
 aristocracy, bent forward from this side and that 
 of the table to hear the reply. It came easily, 
 promptly, in the deep, clear, young voice, which they 
 had all begun to know. 
 
 "But, Monsieur — I have no house. I am a peas- 
 ant. My father holds a farm from the Seigneur 
 
A SOCIAL CRISIS 259 
 
 of Vieques, in the valley of the Jura. It is all 
 the land we have." The exquisite radiant smile of 
 the child of the cottage of La Claire shone across 
 the silver and glass of the glittering dinner-table 
 of Brandon, unconscious of the startled eyes star- 
 ing all one way in that dramatic silence. 
 
 Human nature is mostly good enough to ring true 
 to the touch of truth. It is also quick to be kindly 
 when kindliness is the lead of greatness. Clay, of 
 Kentucky, was genuinely great. He bowed with a 
 gentler courtesy than common to the bright steady 
 face opposite him. 
 
 "Sir," he said, "it is finer to have a heroic record 
 than to have family and lands. I took it for grant- 
 ed you had everything, for you seem a darling of 
 the gods. I congratulate you that the realities which 
 men strive for during long lives — greatness of spirit 
 and greatness of action — have come to you at 
 twenty-six. May I look forward to some talk with 
 you after dinner on French politics?" 
 
 And Frangois, answering eagerly, with the pleas- 
 ure in pleasing which was part of his magic, did 
 not suspect that he had passed a crisis. Missing by 
 a hair's-breadth a social shipwreck, which he would 
 not have realized or regarded, the Chevalier Beau- 
 pre stood hereafter in Virginia society on his own 
 
26o THE MARSHAL 
 
 feet, a peasant born, yet a lion. People wondered 
 how he was a chevalier, but not even Harry Hamp- 
 ton cared to ask him, and it was a tale which lay 
 too deep in his heart to be told often. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 CAPTAIN OF THE TROOP 
 
 AND now he had left Roanoke, and was living 
 jr\.'m the great old house on Pietro's land, the 
 old house which had been lived in a hundred years 
 before Pietro's father had bought it, the old house 
 in which grandchildren of Pietro live to-day. 
 j Something in his odd broken English, something 
 in his vivacity and energy, something in the warmth 
 of the heart which the poor souls felt in him — ^none 
 quicker than negroes to feel a heart — fascinated the 
 slaves who fell to his unaccustomed management. 
 He had met Henry Clay and the proud aristocrats 
 of Virginia as men and women, and given them the 
 best of himself; he inet these thick-lipped, dim- 
 souled, black people no otherwise, and gave them the 
 same. By the crystal truth in him the first had been 
 vanquished, and it happened not dififerently with 
 these other human beings. Pietro's mishandled 
 property grew orderly month by month; Franqois, 
 in the saddle most of the time, riding from end to 
 261 
 
262 THE MARSHAL 
 
 end of the plantation, found his hands full and his 
 work interesting, and his health and strength coming 
 back — though that was a slower progress. 
 
 The people who do most are likely to be the peo- 
 ple who can do a thing more. Young Henry Hamp- 
 ton, ruled out of the larger part of his natural 
 pleasures by that stern by-law of nature, which had 
 made him lame, appealed to Frangois' sympathy 
 every day more deeply. In his devotion to his dis- 
 covery, his brand from the Austrian burning, Jiis 
 own peculiar friend — all this Harry considered 
 Frangois to be — the boy was very much at Cami- 
 fax, and the older man, hardly more than a boy 
 himself, came to know the suffering it meant to 
 a strong and active young animal, to drag a ball 
 and chain. The sort of lad who would have led 
 others at fencing, wrestling, swimming, running — 
 at every sport — he had to sit outside, and with ach- 
 ing heart and muscles tingling to be at work, to 
 watch his friends. He was generous and cheered 
 on the others; he was reserved and never spoke of 
 himself; people, even his own people had come 
 to take his lameness for granted, had forgotten that 
 the trial was always a fresh one to him. But Fran- 
 cois understood. There were no words spoken be- 
 tween them, but Franqois, full of warm friendliness 
 
CAPTAIN OF THE TROOP 263 
 
 toward this boy who had helped him back to life, 
 turned things over in his mind and found a scheme 
 which seemed to promise pleasure for young Hamp- 
 ton — which seemed besides to be good practise for 
 the work to which the gaze of Francois looked for- 
 ward steadily, through and beyond all this tempo- 
 rary living — the work of fighting for the Bona- 
 partes. 
 
 The one thing which the lad could do was riding. 
 "Henry," Franqois spoke, as the two trotted to- 
 gether down a shady lane of the plantation on the 
 way to the far fields where negroes worked in the 
 autumn sunlight, "what would you think of organiz- 
 ing a mounted troop of mihtia?" 
 
 The boy's face flamed with excitement. What 
 would he think of it? He would think it glorious, 
 wonderful, half a dozen big adjectives. 
 
 There were many young men in the neighbor- 
 hood; all of them rode; none of them had enough 
 to do; Frangois had a hold on them — a man may 
 not spend five years in a dungeon because of a 
 dashing mad act of bravery without acquiring a 
 halo which adheres afterward; it was fairly cer- 
 tain that a military company, originating with the 
 Chevalier Beaupre, would succeed. And it succeed- 
 ed. Three days later it was started with the cor- 
 
264 THE MARSHAL 
 
 dial sanction of the fathers and the enthusiasm of 
 the sons. Francois was, of course, the moving spirit 
 and the responsible head, and Franqois was hard 
 at work calling back the old lore of his school-days 
 at Saint-Cyr and reading books on tactics and all 
 military subjects. 
 
 "Henry," said Colonel Hampton one morning 
 after breakfast at Roanoke House, "I want to speak 
 to you a moment in my study." 
 
 Harry went calmly into the dim, pleasant, old 
 room, with its paneled walls and portraits set into 
 the paneling; he had no fear of what his uncle 
 might say, for he was not merely the young nephew 
 and ward living in his uncle's house — he was the 
 owner of most of the acres which made the plan- 
 tation a great one. Colonel Hampton considered 
 that in his treatment of Harry, and Harry knew it 
 well enough. Moreover, it was an unspoken secret 
 that Harry or Lucy had the right of strength over 
 weakness in dealing with the head of ,the house. 
 Obstinacy combined sometimes with weakness, it 
 is true, but yet the two youngsters understood 
 clearly that the colonel was the head only by a grace- 
 ful fiction. So young Henry Hampton felt no alarm 
 at the quality of his uncle's tone. The colonel sat 
 down in the biggest chair, a chair throne-like in its 
 
CAPTAIN OF THE TROOP 265 
 
 dignity; he faced the lad and pulled importantly 
 at the end of his mustache. 
 
 "This troop of cavalry is about organized?" he 
 demanded. 
 
 "Well, that's rather a big name for it, Uncle 
 Henry, but it is going like a streak," answered 
 Henry, junior. "We meet again to-day, and to- 
 morrow I think we shall begin business." 
 
 "I approve of it," Colonel Hampton stated. 
 
 Harry bowed his head gravely. The colonel 
 went on. 
 
 "It is a well-bred and appropriate method of 
 amusement. A gentleman should know something 
 of military affairs. But — ah — ^the ranking and — 
 ah — arrangements ? Such — details are not unlikely, 
 with gentlemen of the first families, as you all are — 
 except one — to crystallize into a — slater importance. 
 The man who has been the leader of this company 
 of very young men will not unlikely be the man 
 thought of as a leader in — ah — ^affairs of greater 
 moment to come. May I inquire who is the cap- 
 tain?" 
 
 Henry Hampton looked troubled, impatient. 
 
 "Why, nobody yet. Uncle Henry. We have not 
 got to that. But, of course, the Chevalier — " 
 . . Colonel Hampton interrupted him. "Exactly. 
 
266 THE MARSHAL 
 
 I thought so. That is what I wish to avoid. The 
 Chevaher must not be the captain." 
 
 The boy caught up the words hotly. "Uncle 
 Henry, he has done it all. We all want him." 
 
 "Exactly. But you must not have him. I am 
 surprised at you, Henry! Do you remember that 
 this man is peasant-born? Do you want to be led 
 into battle by a person whose rank is not above that 
 of our own servants ?" 
 
 "Led into battle!" Young Henry laughed short- 
 ly. "Led into a corn field is more like it." And 
 then his glance fired. "Moreover, Uncle Henry, if 
 there were battle in the case, we should all count 
 ourselves lucky to be led by — a hero." 
 
 "A hero !" Colonel Hampton snififed. "A mere 
 French peasant, by his own account. Of course, I 
 have — received him, because of your infatuation for 
 him. And — the young man has qualities. He has 
 been a success socially, I will not deny. I am quite 
 surprised by his success. But when it comes to put- 
 ting him into a position above men of birth, my 
 blood revolts. I request you, Henry, to use your in- 
 fluence against this. I can not endure to have him 
 give you commands. You should be the captain, 
 because your social position has made the enterprise 
 possible. But, yet, if — your misfortune — if some 
 
CAPTAIN OF THE TROOP 267 
 
 other seems more fit — " A painful color dark- 
 ened the boy's face and his brows gathered. The 
 colonel went on. "I should make no objection to 
 that. But" — again he pulled at the corners of his 
 mustache with solemnity — "I must request you to 
 use your influence absolutely to prevent this par- 
 venu from being placed over you." 
 
 Harry Hampton put his hand on the table beside 
 him and lifting himself with that aid stood before 
 his uncle, leaning a little on the table as his lame 
 foot made it necessary, but yet a figure full of de- 
 cision and dignity. 
 
 "And I must refuse absolutely. Uncle Henry, to 
 do anything of the kind. I am not in question. As 
 you say, I have — a misfortune. I shall use what in- 
 fluence I have to see that the Chevalier Beaupre 
 is made captain of the company he has organized 
 and is to educate. That is fitting. I am proud 
 to call him my friend, and I am glad that I am large- 
 minded enough to realize that as large a mind as his 
 is not to be measured by petty standards. If he 
 is a prince or if he is a peasant is quite immate- 
 rial, because he is first a very great thing — himself." 
 He turned from the astonished colonel, and with 
 his halting step was gone. 
 
 Shortly the young master's horse was ordered and 
 
268 THE MARSHAL 
 
 he had left word with Ebenezer, the butler, as he 
 went out, that he would not be home till bedtime, 
 and was off toward Carnifax. 
 
 "Franqois," he began, finding his friend busy over 
 his papers in that same library, at that same carved 
 mahogany desk, where to-day lie the packages of 
 old letters — "Francois, I want to speak to you — 
 about something — before our meeting." 
 
 "What then? The boy is out of breath. You 
 have been running Black Hawk again, my Henry — 
 that horse will complain of you soon, the strong 
 beast. What is it you are in such a hurry to say 
 that one must race across country so of a good 
 hour of the morning?" 
 
 But Henry was too intent to talk nothings. "It is 
 important," he said briefly. "We must have a cap- 
 tain for the company at once, and it must be you." 
 
 "Sabre de bois!" smiled Franqois radiantly. 
 "The good idea ! I can not imagine a fellow more 
 beautiful to be a captain than I. Can you?" 
 
 But Henry was altogether serious-minded. "You 
 will consent then?" he threw at him. "I did not 
 think of it till this morning, but I see it should be 
 done at once. We will all want you, of course, and 
 want nobody else." 
 
 Now Henry Hampton, not having thought of the 
 
CAPTAIN OF THE TROOP 269 
 
 question till this morning, had no right to make this 
 statement in a full round voice of certainty. Yet he 
 knew every man in the company, and he felt in 
 himself the force to answer for them. He an- 
 swered for them without a hesitation. And with 
 that Frangois' laughing face grew grave. He pushed 
 the letters from him and got up and came across 
 to the boy and bent and put his arm around his 
 shoulder as he sat still and stiff. These French ways 
 of his friend pleased Harry immensely, but they 
 also petrified him with embarrassment. Francois 
 was not in the least embarrassed. He patted the 
 broad young shoulder affectionately. 
 
 "My good Henry," he said gently. "What a 
 loyal heart — and what a reckless one! How then 
 can you answer for all these messieurs?" 
 
 Harry flung up his head and began. "They will 
 — if they do not I shall make them" — ^but Franqois 
 stopped the bold words. 
 
 "No," he said quietly — ^yet with a tone of finality 
 which the other recognized. "That will not be nec- 
 essary. And the messieurs are my good friends; 
 they will treat me with honor; they will be better 
 to me than I deserve. I know that well." There 
 were so few people in the world who did not, to 
 Frangois, seem his good friends. "But, my Henry, 
 
270 THE MARSHAL 
 
 I will not be the captain. I have thought of that, 
 if you have not. Look here." 
 
 He swung to the desk and slipped out a drawer, 
 and had a long folded paper in his hands. He 
 flapped it open before Harry's eyes. It was a formal 
 notice to Mr. Henry Hampton, junior, that the Jef- 
 ferson Troop of Virginia had elected him as its cap- 
 tain. 
 
 Harry flushed violently and his mouth quivered 
 with pleasure, with nervousness, with unhappiness. 
 The other watched him eagerly. All this affair of 
 the troop he had done to give pleasure to Harry 
 Hampton, his friend. It was the only way in which 
 the lame boy could be on equal terms with the other 
 boys, and Franqois had determined from the first 
 that every joy which could be gleaned out of it he 
 should have. To be the captain ought to be a joy. 
 
 "I!" Harry cried and then was silent — and then 
 spoke sorrowfully. "But — it can not be !" 
 
 "Can not be?" demanded Francois. "Why not?" 
 
 There was a moment's silence and with a painful 
 effort the words came. "My — ^misfortune. I am 
 lame." 
 
 And Frangois cried out, "Henry — all that is non- 
 sense! What of it? It is a thing you do as well 
 as the best — riding. Who has such a seat, such 
 
CAPTAIN OF THE TROOP 271 
 
 hands as you? Why not then, I demand?" And 
 went on. "It is settled. I have talked to them all 
 — see the signatures. You are the captain, my 
 Henry — ^and I am your right hand and your left 
 hand — ^yes and your feet, too, whenever you need 
 me." 
 
 "But," said Harry, dazed, "it is really your place; 
 don't you want to be captain ?" he shot at the other 
 boyishly. 
 
 And with that Frangois' arm was about his 
 shoulder again as the two stood together, and Fran- 
 gois was laughing. "But yes," he said. "I should 
 like it. That is a secret." His face was brilliant 
 with laughter. "You only may know, my Henry, 
 that I am vain — ah, very vain," he repeated sadly. 
 "Never tell it. I love titles and honors and impor- 
 tance. I like to be called Chevalier — ^though indeed 
 that is my right," he added with a quick touch of 
 dignity. "And I should like very much to be cap- 
 tain of this company of fine young men, the flowers 
 — does one say ? — of the South. But it is not best." 
 He held up his forefinger and looked enormously 
 worldly-wise. "No. You would not mind; the 
 young messieurs would not mind, perhaps — ^but the 
 fathers — ah, the fathers !" He threw back his head 
 and gazed at the ceiling with eyes of horror. Then 
 
272 THE MARSHAL 
 
 with a start and a hand flung out, "And the moth- 
 ers! Mon Dieu! But the mothers, Henry! They 
 would malse — what you call it — a hell of a time, is 
 it not?" 
 
 Harry roared with joy at the terrified whisper. 
 "But I have neither father nor mother," he sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "Ah, Henry," argued Francois with deep satis- 
 faction in his tone, "that makes you so suitable." 
 
 "Suitable?" inquired Henry. 
 
 "But yes, my friend. It kills jealousy. All is 
 grist, one says, that comes at your mill. All is 
 fathers, all is mothers to the poor orphan — and be- 
 sides that, there is Monsieur the Colonel. One sees 
 that the uncle of the captain will be contented. And 
 whom should I wish to content but my first host, 
 my first benefactor in this land? I believe, indeed, 
 he would be displeased if I should take the place. 
 I believe he is not satisfied of my birth." 
 
 And beneath the nonsense of Frangois, Henry 
 could but acknowledge the clear-sighted logic. So it 
 happened that Henry Hampton became captain of 
 the Jefferson Troop, to the entire satisfaction of all 
 concerned. 
 
 Yet Colonel Hampton, who had the unconquer- 
 able clinging of a weak character to post-mortems, 
 
CAPTAIN OF THE TROOP 273 
 
 could not resist harking back to the possibiHty which 
 had offended him. He did not Hke to cross swords 
 again with Harry on the subject, having found that 
 young person's blade heavy; so he went to his 
 daughter. That tiny executive person with a basket 
 of big keys, which, to a southern housekeeper, is 
 more than a badge, came out on the shady gallery 
 where the colonel sat in immaculate linen, for the 
 day was like August, and sipped a mint-julep made 
 of the tender leaves of a second growth of the mint 
 bed, made of sugar ground with mint, of ice pow- 
 dered fine in a napkin, of Bourbon whisky poured in 
 to the top of all. The frost on the silver cup stood 
 like a snow-drift; the fresh mint spears lifted in 
 stiff ranks above ; it was a beautiful julep ; one would 
 have thought the colonel could not be querulous with 
 such a bouquet in his hand. But the colonel was al- 
 lowing himself to be irritated. 
 
 "Young Allen Fitzhugh has just been here," he 
 began, and his daughter knew from the tone that 
 something was wrong. 
 
 "Yes. I saw him. He and Harry have ridden 
 to Carnifax." 
 
 "Those lads talk great nonsense," growled the 
 colonel. 
 
 "Yes," Lucy agreed. "I like to hear them." 
 
274 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "I don't." With that the colonel brought his fist 
 down on his chair arm, and joggled the beautiful 
 julep and spilled some of it on his white linen trous- 
 ers. Lucy laughed. The colonel's temper was not 
 improved. 
 
 "Pernicious nonsense they talk. About this ab- 
 surd young Chevalier, as they call him — ^though 
 where he got his title I can not guess." 
 
 "What about the Chevalier?" Lucy's blue eyes 
 were serious. 
 
 "Oh, about his virtues and his charms," the 
 colonel grumbled vaguely. "And about his undoubt- 
 ed right to have been captain of the troop, and his 
 fine spirit in refusing. A pest! As if he dared 
 accept! As if we Virginians would see a common 
 peasant set over our children." 
 
 There was a complete silence on the broad shady 
 gallery for a moment. The breeze rustled in the 
 live-oak trees and went on beyond as if light-footed 
 ladies in silk petticoats had slipped past. Out at the 
 cabins one heard two negro women singing in rich 
 voices : 
 
 "Nellie was a lady — 
 Last night she died." 
 
 The women sang far away. Bees hummed in the 
 garden. The colonel sipped at his mint-julep. 
 
CAPTAIN OF THE TROOP 275 
 
 Then Lucy's soft falling voice spoke very clearly. 
 "I think the boys are right, father. I agree with 
 them that the Chevalier showed a fine spirit." 
 
 The colonel turned angrily. "You don't under- 
 stand what you are talking about," he shot at her 
 peevishly. "I am astonished at you, Lucy! You 
 — a lady — a Hampton, to encourage this man of 
 low birth who has worked his way into our society!" 
 
 But Lucy answered him quite easily, quite firmly. 
 "You know you don't believe that, father. You 
 know he has not 'worked his way' among us, but 
 that everybody has been delighted to welcome him 
 in. Why, you like him, father — ^you are as friendly 
 to him as any one when he comes here." 
 
 The colonel looked worried. "Oh — friendly — of 
 course. In my own house. And besides, society 
 has accepted him; he is a manner of celebrity; I 
 do not wish to be thought bearish. But it is a dan- 
 gerous precedent. I do not like it. The next thing 
 the fellow might wish to marry one of our southern 
 ladies!" 
 
 Once again one heard the bees hum, and the col- 
 ored women singing, and the breeze in the trees, and 
 then Lucy's low decided voice spoke clearly. "I 
 think it would be a very fortunate woman whom 
 the Chevalier might wish to marry," she said. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 HERO WORSHIP 
 
 IT had come about that Lucy Hampton was a 
 scholar of Franqois. The colonel, lamenting on 
 a day that there were no capable teachers of French 
 in the neighborhood, . that Lucy's schoolgirl com- 
 mand of the language was fast disappearing, and 
 an accomplishment so vital to a lady was likely soon 
 to be lost — this saga of regret being sung by the 
 colonel at the dinner-table, Francois had offered to 
 teach piademoiselle his mother tongue. And the 
 colonel had accepted the offer. 
 
 "If you are not too busy. Chevalier. And I sup- 
 pose your — ah — accent — is entirely good? One 
 can not be too careful, you know. At least we shall 
 not quarrel about the terms, for whatever money 
 you think right to ask I shall be ready to pay," 
 and the colonel felt himself a man of the world 
 and extremely generous. 
 
 "Father !" Lucy cried quickly. 
 
 Frangois' eyes were on his plate but they swept 
 276 
 
HERO WORSHIP 277 
 
 up with their wide brown gaze full on the colonel's 
 face. "I am not too busy, Monsieur the Colonel. 
 As for my accent — I am a peasant, as Monsieur 
 knows, but yet I am instructed. I was for years 
 at Saint-Cyr, the great military school of France. 
 I believe my accent is right. As for money" — a 
 quick motion, all French, spoke a whole sentence. 
 "If Monsieur insists on that — that must finish it. 
 To me it would be impossible to take money for 
 the pleasure of teaching mademoiselle." He flashed 
 at Lucy a smile all gentleness, and Lucy's eyes, 
 waiting for that smile, met his shyly. 
 
 The colonel blustered a bit, but the lessons were 
 arranged as Franqois wished, and twice a week 
 throughout the winter he rode over from Carnifax 
 to give them. And little by little he came to know 
 the small mistress of the manor as few had known 
 her. People thought Lucy Hampton too serious and 
 staid for a young girl; no one realized that, her 
 mother being dead and her father such as he was, 
 the clear-headed little person had begun at ten or 
 twelve years old to know that she must make her 
 own decisions, and many of her father's also. At 
 fourteen she had taken the keys and the responsibil- 
 ity of the house, and now, at sixteen, she was in real- 
 ity the head of the whole great plantation. The 
 
278 THE MARSHAL 
 
 colonel, who would have been most indignant to be 
 told so, leaned on her in every detail, and it was she 
 who planned and decided and often executed the 
 government of the little kingdom. 
 
 Those who think of southern ladies of the old 
 regime as idle do not understand what their life 
 was. The position of mayor of a city would ap- 
 proach idleness as nearly. It was for the woman at 
 the head of such a place to guide the household 
 work of a great number of servants; to train new 
 servants as they were added to the corps; to man- 
 age the commissariat for all this army; to see that 
 the fruits of one season were cooked and made into 
 the sweets and pickles and drinks of another; to 
 look after the clothing of hundreds of negroes on 
 the plantation, cutting and arranging with her own 
 hands. Beyond this, to the mind of a conscien- 
 tious southern woman, such as was young Lucy 
 Hampton, the souls of her slaves were her charge 
 as well as their bodies. As she stood slim and fair 
 and young, in the great, shadowy, sunshot hall of 
 Roanoke House, and read and explained the Bible 
 or led the singing, while all the earnest, reverent, 
 black faces turned to her trustingly, it was a great 
 power to be given into such hands, and she felt 
 it so. In addition to all this a lady of Virginia must 
 
HERO WORSHIP 279 
 
 entertain and go into society and be a grande dame 
 as well as, if it so happened, a devoted'wife and 
 mother. 
 
 All this, except the last, lay on the slender shoul- 
 ders of Lucy Hampton, and besides all this she had 
 begun in very childhood to hold up the hands and 
 do the thinking of an incompetent father. It was 
 not wonderful that she was graver and slower to 
 frolic than other girls of sixteen. Her conscientious 
 young brain was full of care, and light-heartedness 
 of youth had never had a chance to grow in that 
 crowded place. Her cousin had come to live with 
 them only the year before, when his mother had 
 died, his father being dead long ago; and Lucy 
 knew quite well that her father had planned that 
 the two should marry and unite the broad acres of 
 the Hamptons. 
 
 But the young longing for romance which was in 
 her in spite of the choking sober business of her 
 life, rebelled at this. She would not give herself 
 as well as all her thought and effort for Roanoke. 
 She wanted to love somebody, and be loved for her- 
 self as other girls were; she would not marry Harry 
 because he and her father considered it a good ar- 
 rangement. So strongly had this determination 
 seized her that, looking entirely down that way of 
 
28o THE MARSHAL 
 
 thought, she failed to see that Harry might not be 
 classed with the colonel in his view of the plan. She 
 failed to see that if she had not been heiress to Roan- 
 oke House, or to anything at all, Harry Hampton 
 would still have been in love with his cousin Lucy. 
 For Harry saw how the young life had been pressed 
 into a service too hard for it almost from babyhood ; 
 Harry saw how unselfish she was and trustworthy; 
 how broad-minded and warm-hearted; how she 
 would like to be care free and irresponsible like 
 other girls of her age, only that the colonel and the 
 estate were always there, always demanding her 
 time and her attention. He could do little to help 
 her as yet, but he longed to lift the weight and carry 
 it with her, not away from her, for the fairy of 
 a person was not the sort to lean on others or to be 
 happy without her share of the burden. Yet, Harry 
 thought, "If I might only help her, and make it 
 all a dehght instead of a labor!" 
 
 But Lucy, going about her busy days, never 
 guessed this. She thought of Harry as the boy whom 
 she had grown up with, to be cared for tenderly 
 always because of his misfortune, to be helped and 
 planned for and loved indeed, because he was lame 
 and her cousin, and because he was a dear boy and 
 her best friend. But as the hero of her own romance 
 
HERO WORSHIP 281 
 
 to come, she refused to think of him at all. More 
 firmly she refused such an idea, of course, because 
 her father had hinted that it would complete both 
 Harry's and his happiness. She had laughed at 
 Harry openly about the scheme more than once, 
 and he had flushed and kept silent and Lucy had 
 thought : 
 
 "Poor old honest Harry! He has been brow- 
 beaten by my father, but he will not lie to me, 
 the good lad." 
 
 Francois, with quick insight, saw as much as this, 
 and was anxious for the boy who had been his warm 
 and steady friend. What he did not see was that 
 Lucy was fitting his own personality into that empty 
 notch of her imagination where an altar stood and 
 a candle burned, ready for the image that was to 
 come above them. ' That never entered his mind, 
 for in his mind Alixe was the only woman living 
 to be considered in such a relation. And, in spite of 
 the seigneur, in spite of Pietro, in spite of his whole- 
 hearted giving up of her, there was a happy obstin- 
 ate corner in the depths of his soul which yet 
 whispered against all reason that it might be that 
 Alixe loved him, that it might be, for unheard-of 
 things happened every day, it might be yet that — ■ 
 with all honor, with all happiness to those others 
 
282 THE MARSHAL 
 
 whom he loved — he might some day be free to love 
 her. He knew it to be impossible, yet ever in his 
 being, like a stream singing underground in a for- 
 est, the unphrased thought lived always. So that 
 as he grew to care for and understand Lucy Hamp- 
 ton more and more, no faintest dream of caring 
 for her as he did for Alixe came ever into his mind. 
 The situation, given this most winning and lovable 
 young man, filled with warm gratitude and admira- 
 tion, given two opportunities a week all winter for 
 unconscious molding of the plastic material of little 
 Lucy's affections — given these things, the situation 
 for Lucy was unsafe. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 A LESSON IN FRENCH 
 
 ON an evening when winter was wearing away 
 to cold spring, Frangois waited in the dining- 
 room of Roanoke House for his scholar. It was 
 very still in the large house. The sharp wind of a 
 March in Virginia whistled through the bare 
 branches of trees in the park outside. Inside, the 
 crackling of a fire of piled hickory logs tempered 
 with its careless naturalness the formality of the 
 fine old room. The room had a sweet and stately 
 beauty, a graceful stiffness like the manners of the 
 women who first lived in it, a hundred years before. 
 The carved white woodwork over the doors was 
 yellowed to ivory; the mantelpiece, brought from 
 France in 1 732, framed in its fluted pillars, its gar- 
 lands and chiseled nymphs and shepherds, as if un- 
 der protest, the rollicking orange of the fire. Over 
 a mahogany sofa, covered with slippery horsehair, 
 hung a portrait of the first lady of the manor, and 
 Frangois, sitting soldierly erect in a straight chair, 
 283 
 
284 THE MARSHAL 
 
 smiled as his gaze fell on it — it was so like yet so un- 
 like a face which he knew. There was the delicate 
 oval chin and straight nose, and fair loose hair. 
 But the portrait was staid and serious, while Lucy's 
 face, as this man had seen it, had kindly eyes and a 
 mouth smiling always. He shook his head in gentle 
 amusement at the grave dignity of the picture. 
 
 "But no, Madame — you are not so charming as 
 your granddaughter," he said, addressing it aloud. 
 
 And then he stepped across the room to the fire, 
 and held his hands to it and stared into it. The 
 clock ticked firmly, the logs fell apart with soft 
 sliding sounds, and he stared down at them — ^his 
 thoughts far away — a look came into his eyes as if 
 they concentrated on something beyond the range 
 of sight, the characteristic look of Frangois, the old 
 look of a dreamer, of a seer of visions. 
 
 Then Lucy stood in the doorway, gentle, charm- 
 ing from the slippered feet, laced over the instep, to 
 the shadowy locks of light hair on her forehead. 
 
 "Good evening, Monsieur. I am sorry I kept you 
 waiting. Hannibal hurt his foot and I must find 
 plaster and bandage for him. But you will have 
 enough of my talking even now. Father says I talk 
 a great deal. Do I, Monsieur ?" 
 
 Franqois stood regarding her, with frank admira- 
 
A LESSON IN FRENCH 285 
 
 tion in every muscle of his face. He smiled, the 
 same gentle amused smile with which he had ad- 
 dressed the portrait. "You never talk too much for 
 me. Mademoiselle. It is a pleasure to me always to 
 hear your voice," he answered in the deep tone of a 
 Frenchman, the tone that has ever a half note of 
 tragedy, as of some race-memory which centuries 
 do not wipe out. "Only," he went on speaking in 
 French, "one must not talk English. That is break- 
 ing the law, you remember. Mademoiselle." 
 I She answered very prettily in his own tongue, in 
 words that halted a little. "Very well. Monsieur. 
 I will do my best." He still gazed at her smiling, 
 without speaking. One could understand that, to a 
 girl of more self-contained people, this open homage 
 of manner, this affectionate gentleness, might seem 
 to mean more than a brotherly loyalty. The girl's 
 pulse was beating fast as she made an effort for con- 
 versation. "What were you thinking of as you 
 looked at the fire when I came in. Monsieur ? It had 
 an air of being something pleasant. Did I not say 
 all that beautifully ?" she finished in English. 
 
 He corrected a lame verb with serious accuracy 
 and she repeated the word, and laughed happily. 
 
 "But you haven't said yet what you were think- 
 ing about." , 
 
286 THE MARSHAL 
 
 The large brown eyes turned on hers. "It was of 
 my old home in France, Mademoiselle, when I was 
 very little," he said simply. "A large fire of logs 
 makes me think of that." 
 
 "Tell me about it," she begged with quick inter- 
 est. "Will you ? Was there always a fire at your 
 house ?" 
 
 "But no. Mademoiselle — not, of course, in the 
 summer. It was of the winter time I thought, when 
 the neighbors came, in the evening, and we sat about 
 the hearth, sometimes twenty people, each at his dif- 
 ferent duty, and my brothers and sisters were there, 
 and the dear grand-mere was there and — " he 
 stopped. "Does Mademoiselle really wish to hear 
 how it was in that old farm-house of ours, in the 
 shadow of the Jura Mountains ?" 
 
 "Indeed, Mademoiselle wishes it," she assured 
 him. "It will be a trip to Europe. I am sure I shall 
 speak better French for going to France for ten min- 
 utes, and being among the French people, your 
 friends. Wait now, till I am comfortable." She 
 turned a deep chair so that it faced him, and 
 dropped into it. "Put a footstool for me," she or- 
 dered, as southern women order the men they care 
 for — and the men they do not. And she settled 
 back with her little feet on it and smiled at him. For 
 
A LESSON IN FRENCH 287 
 
 a moment the man's brilliant gaze rested on her and 
 the girl saw it, and thrilled to it. "Now, Monsieur, 
 racontez-moi une histoire," she spoke softly. 
 
 Frangois Beaupre's look turned from her to the 
 fire, and the air of gazing at something far away 
 came again. "It is a picture I see aS I think of that 
 time of my childhood," he began, as if speaking to 
 himself. "A picture many times painted in home- 
 like colors on my brain. Many a night in the winter 
 I have sat, a little boy, by the side of my grand- 
 mother, at that great hearth, and have looked and 
 have seen all the faces, have heard all the voices and 
 the fire crackling, and the spinning-wheel whirring, 
 even as I see them and hear them to-night. I was 
 always close by the grand-mhe, for I was the dearest 
 of the children to her. Sometimes long after my 
 bedtime I sat there, but very quietly, for fear that my 
 mother might remember and send me to bed ; yet she 
 liked to please the grand-mere, so I stayed often 
 longer than the others. It was a great room, and 
 across one comer was the hearth which was raised 
 like a throne. Mademoiselle, from the floor, twelve 
 feet wide. One burned logs six feet long within it, 
 and from up the chimney swung the cremaUlere — 
 the chains from which were hung the kettles. It 
 was the house of a peasant. Mademoiselle knows, yet 
 
288 THE MARSHAL 
 
 it was the best house in the village. Often, of a 
 November night, the neighbors would come in, per- 
 haps a dozen, perhaps more, and the young men had 
 their work — they arranged the flax for spinning, it 
 might be, — and the young girls prepared apples to 
 dry, and the mothers' knitting needles flashed back 
 and forth on the stockings for our winter wear, and 
 the grand-mere would be spinning linen threads for 
 our clothing — whirr, whirr — I can hear the low 
 sound of her wheel. And always I, FranQois, would 
 be on the stool at her side, watching and listening. 
 For my father was a great ' raconteur, and he told 
 stories of the war and of the legends of that country. 
 It was an ancient country you must know. Mademoi- 
 selle, and the name of our village itself was from the 
 Romans. Vieques was the name, and that as you 
 know. Mademoiselle, comes from the Latin word 
 vicus, a village. So that there were old castles in 
 ruin in those parts and tales of buried treasure, and 
 ghosts in armor guarding it, and great dogs that 
 breathed flame, and other things pleasantly horrible 
 to the ear of a little boy. On the cold nights, as the 
 fire roared up the chimney and the grandmother's 
 wheel whirred softly, my father and the other men 
 told these tales, and I listened, quiet as a mouse in 
 my comer, and from time to time I saw a young 
 
A LESSON IN FRENCH 289 
 
 man lean over and whisper in the ear of one of the 
 young girls, and I wondered why her face became 
 red as the firelight. 
 
 "And from time to time one of the men, as he 
 talked, rose up and strode across the room to the 
 great oak table where lay always on a wooden plate 
 a long loaf of black bread, with a knife, and always 
 a glass and a bottle of eau-de-vie — brandy. And I 
 remember how manly it looked to me, watching, 
 when I saw him take the loaf under his arm and 
 hold it, and slice off boldly a great piece of the fresh 
 rye bread, and pour out a glass of brandy and toss it 
 off as he ate the bread. The stories seemed to grow 
 better after the teller had done that. 
 
 "And always I waited, even through the tale of 
 the ghost and the fire-breathing hound, till the talk 
 should swing round, as it did ever toward the end, 
 to the stories of Napoleon that were fresh in men's 
 minds in those days. It was as if I sat on needles 
 before my bedtime came, yet I did not dare to be 
 restless and move about for fear that my mother 
 might send me suddenly to bed. But I always gave 
 a sigh of content and always the grand-mere patted 
 my head softly to hear it, when my father cleared 
 his throat and began — 
 
 " 'There is a small thing that happened when the 
 
290 THE MARSHAL 
 
 Emperor was marching' — and then he was launched 
 on his tale." 
 
 A great hickory log fell, rolled out toward the 
 hearth. The carved nymphs and shepherds seemed 
 to frown in disapproval at this irregularity, and the 
 girl in the deep chair smiled, but the man sprang up 
 and put the log back in place with quick efficiency. 
 He stood silent by the tall mantelpiece, deep yet in 
 his reverie, as the flames caught the wood again and 
 sparkled and sputtered. 
 
 "Did any of them ever see Napoleon — ^those men 
 who talked about him ?" the girl asked. 
 
 The Frenchman turned a queer look on her, and 
 did not answer. 
 
 "Did any of your family ever see him. Mon- 
 sieur ?" she asked again. 
 
 The alert figure stepped backward, sat down 
 again on the gilded chair and leaned forward con- 
 sideringly. Franqois nodded as if to the fire. "But 
 yes. Mademoiselle," he said, in a whisper. 
 
 "Oh, tell me !" the girl cried, all interest. "Who 
 was it? How was it? It couldn't be" — she hesi- 
 tated — "yourself! If you, whom I know so well, 
 should have seen the Emperor!" She caught a deep 
 breath of excitement. This was another Lucy 
 Hampton from the serious young mistress of Roan- 
 
A LESSON IN FRENCH 291 
 
 oke House whom the country people knew. "Quick- 
 ly, Monsieur, tell me if it was yourself !" 
 
 Frangois turned his eyes on her. "Yes, Mad- 
 emoiselle," he answered. 
 
 A log slipped and slid and the sparks caught a 
 new surface and flew aloft in a crackling uproar; 
 the elfish light showered brilliancy on the girl's fair 
 hair as she bent forward with her white teeth gleam- 
 ing, her blue eyes shining, stirred with the dramatic 
 air of the Frenchman. With a catch of her breath — 
 
 "You have seen Napoleon!" she said, and then, 
 impetuously, "Tell me about it!" But, though he 
 smiled at her with that affectionate amusement 
 which she seemed, of all sentiments, oftenest to in- 
 spire in him, he did not answer. 
 
 "Monsieur! you will not refuse to tell me when 
 I want to know so much !" she pleaded, and went on. 
 "How old were you ? Did he speak to you ? What 
 did he say to you ?" 
 
 And the Frenchman laughed as if at a dear child 
 who was absurd. "Mademoiselle asks many ques- 
 tions — which shall I answer ?" he demanded, and the 
 tone to her ear was the tone of love, and she trem- 
 bled to hear it. 
 
 "Answer" — she began, and stammered and 
 flushed, and stopped. 
 
292 THE MARSHAL 
 
 Franqois went on, little thinking what damage he 
 was doing with that unconscious chann of voice and 
 look. 
 
 "It is as Mademoiselle wishes, most certainly. I 
 will even answer Mademoiselle's two questions at 
 once to please her. It was when I was not quite three 
 years old, Mademoiselle, at home in the farm-house 
 in the valley of the Jura." 
 
 "And he spoke to you, to your own self? Are 
 you sure?" 
 
 "But yes, he spoke to me. Mademoiselle." 
 
 "What did he say ?" The smile on Francois' face 
 went out and into its place swept an intensity of 
 feeling; he answered solemnly: "There were but 
 few words. Mademoiselle, but they have been much 
 to my life. They shall lead my life, if God pleases, 
 those words shall lead it to the fate which they fore- 
 told." 
 
 "What were the words?" whispered the girl, im- 
 pressed with awe. 
 
 Francois suddenly stood erect and stretched out 
 his arm as if to hold a sword. " 'Rise Chevalier 
 Franqois Beaupre, one day a Marshal of France un- 
 der another Napoleon,' " he repeated dramatically. 
 "Those were the words the Emperor said." 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 THE STORY AGAIN 
 
 THE girl, her face lifted to him, looked bewil- 
 dered. "I don't understand." 
 
 The visionary eyes stared at her uncertainly. "I 
 have never told this thing," he said in a low tone. 
 
 "Ah— but it's only me," begged the girl. 
 
 "Only you. Mademoiselle!" His voice went on 
 as if reflecting aloud. "It is the guiding star of my 
 life — ^that story; yet I may tell it" — he paused — "to 
 'only you'." 
 
 Again the girl quivered, feeling the intensity, mis- 
 taking its meaning. "I should be glad if you would 
 tell it," she spoke almost in a whisper, but Frangois, 
 floating backward on a strong tide to those old be- 
 loved days, did not notice. 
 
 In his mind was the memory of the great entry of 
 the farm-house, and the children crowding about the 
 grandmother, and the gentle old voice, now gone 
 into silence, which had told the tale. The sunshine 
 lay in patches on the floor, the breeze tossed the red 
 293 
 
294 THE MARSHAL 
 
 and yellow tulips in the garden, and through the open 
 door he saw his mother move about the kitchen get- 
 ting dinner ready before the father should come in 
 from the fields. All the early life, long dissolved 
 in the past, materialized before him, and his heart 
 ached with a longing to speak of them, to relieve 
 thus the pressure of the crowding thoughts of home. 
 "It may seem a simple affair to you. Mademoiselle 
 — I can not tell that. It has affected my life. The 
 way of it was this : Napoleon marched to Germany 
 in the year 1813, and passed with his staff through 
 our village. The house of my father was the largest 
 in the village, and it was chosen to be, for an hour, 
 the Emperor's headquarters, and the Emperor held 
 a council of war, he and his generals, there. I, a 
 child of three, was sleeping in a room which opened 
 from the great room, and I wakened with the sound 
 of voices, and ran in, unnoticed, for they were all 
 bent over the table, looking at the maps and lists of 
 the mayor — and I pulled at the sword of Marshal 
 Ney. And the marshal, turning quickly, knocked 
 me over. I cried out, and my grandmother ran to 
 me, and I have often heard her tell how she peeped 
 from the door under the shoulder of the big sentry 
 who would not let her pass, and how she saw a 
 young general pick, me up and set me on my feet. 
 
THE STORY AGAIN 295' 
 
 and how all the great officers laughed when he said 
 that the sword was in contest between Marshal Ney 
 and me. And how, then, the young general sug- 
 gested that, to settle the point amicably, the marshal 
 should draw his sword, and give me the accolade — 
 the blow o£ knighting; And so. Mademoiselle, to 
 shorten the tale, it was not the marshal, but the Em- 
 peror himself who chose to do it. He made me 
 kneel before him, I — a baby — and he struck my 
 shoulder the blow of the accolade, and said the 
 words which I have told you." 
 
 Fran9ois sprang to his feet and stood as he re- 
 peated once more the Emperor's words. His voice 
 shook. 
 
 " 'Rise Chevalier Franqois Beaupre, one day a 
 Marshal of France under another Bonaparte,' " he 
 criedj thrilled through with the words which he re- 
 peated. 
 
 The girl leaning forward, watched him; with a 
 gasp she spoke. "Then — that is why you are really 
 Chevalier Beaupre ? Did the Emperor have the right 
 to — to knight you ?" 
 
 "But yes. Mademoiselle," Frangois answered 
 with decision. "I have studied the question, and I 
 believe that the accolade — the knighting — ^was al- 
 ways a right of the monarchs of France, disused. 
 
296 THE MARSHAL 
 
 perhaps at times, but yet held in abeyance, a right. 
 My family did not agree with me. My father, who 
 was very practical, thought that it was a mere joke 
 of the Emperor's — or if not a joke, then a caprice 
 which carried no weight. But the seigneur — ^the 
 General Gourgaud, who was one of Napoleon's of- 
 ficers, and others. Mademoiselle, believe as I do. 
 And to my mind it is impossible that the Emperor's 
 word should carry no weight. There has never 
 lived on earth a man of so enormous a force, and 
 even the smallest acts of his were history. If the 
 Ettiperor ordained, then, that a little child of the 
 people, a peasant, should be a noble — ^why, it was 
 well within his power — it was done. And I am that 
 child." 
 
 The glance of his brilliant eyes met hers with a 
 frank calmness which showed that he claimed noth- 
 ing which he did not feel; that this haphazard no- 
 bility had lived in his soul and grown with his 
 growth, and come to be part of him. With a gen- 
 tle humility, very winning as it sprang from his gen- 
 tle pride, he went on. 
 
 "I know. Mademoiselle, that I am a peasant and 
 that I must be content with a small place in life at 
 the present. I know this. And even that position 
 which I have is more than my brothers. For you 
 
THE STORY AGAIN 297 
 
 must know. Mademoiselle, that the others grew up 
 to be farmers or tradesmen." He hesitated, and 
 then in a few words told her of General Gourgaud, 
 the seigneur of Vieques, and how he had given the 
 peasant boy all the opportunities which his own son 
 could have had. And as he talked he rememtjered 
 how, after his father's ruin, he had stood inside the 
 bare, little, new cottage and watched through the 
 window his mother standing at the gate and talking 
 to the seigneur, who held Lisette's bridle. It seemed 
 to him he could see the dark braided hair of La 
 Claire, coiled around her head, and the deep point of 
 her white neck-handkerchief, as she stood with her 
 back to him, and the big bow of the apron tied about 
 her waist. The picture came vividly. And it op- 
 ened his heart so that he talked on, and told this 
 stranger in a strange land many things that had lain 
 close and silent in his heart. He told her about the 
 general's gruffness, which could not hide his good- 
 ness; and how he had come to be the child of the 
 castle as well as of the cottage; something of Pietro 
 also he told her ; but he did not mention Alixe. 
 
 "You 'spoke of three children, Monsieur; who was 
 the third?" asked Lucy. 
 
 Francois went on as if he had not heard the ques- 
 tion. "It was a happy life, Mademoiselle," he said. 
 
298 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "And it has been so ever since — even, for the most 
 part, in prison. I have wondered at times if the 
 world is all filled with such kind people as I have 
 met, or if it is just my good luck." 
 
 Lucy Hampton had been reading aloud to her sick 
 black mammy that day, and some of the words of 
 the book she had read came to her, and seemed to 
 fit "The kingdom of God is within you," she 
 quoted softly, to Franqois. Then she considered a 
 moment. 
 
 "Monsieur, would it be impertinent for me to ask 
 you a question — a personal question?" 
 
 "I think nqt, Mademoiselle," he smiled at her. 
 
 She went ort, hesitating a little. "Father was 
 talking of how Prince Louis Bonaparte served, a 
 few years ago, with the Italian revolutionists. I 
 wondered if — if by chance you had fought under 
 him." 
 
 He shook his head. "I had not that happiness, 
 Mademoiselle." 
 
 "The heir of the Bonapartes now is that Prince 
 Louis Napoleon, is it not ?" she questioned 
 
 "Yes, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "And he made an attempt on the city of Stras- 
 burg, a few months ago, and was tried for it — and 
 all that — father talked about it so much I could not 
 
THE STORY AGAIN 299 
 
 help knowing a little about it, but I don't remember 
 distinctly." 
 
 "But certainly, Mademoiselle. It was the Prince." 
 
 "Then, haven't they just done something to him ? 
 Isn't there something people are interested in just 
 now about that Prince Louis?" 
 
 The grave bright smile flashed out at her. "In 
 truth, Mademoiselle, there is. The Prince was 
 shipped by his jailers on the frigate Andromede 
 more than four months ago, for what port is un- 
 known. One has not heard of him lately, and there 
 are fears that he may have suffered shipwreck. But 
 I do not fear. It is the hope of France, it is France's 
 destiny which the Andromede carries. It will carry 
 that great cargo safely. The young Prince will yet 
 come to his own, and I — ^and perhaps you. Madem- 
 oiselle — ^who knows? — ^will cry for him 'Vive I'Em- 
 pereur' !" 
 
 The tone full of feeling thrilled through the girl. 
 She flushed and stammered as she went on, but 
 Francois, carried away by his enthusiasm, did not 
 think of it. "If you will let me ask you just one 
 question more. Monsieur, I will promise not to ask 
 any after." 
 
 The flicker of amusement lighted his face. "Ask 
 me a thousand. Mademoiselle." 
 
300 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "No, only one. Did that seigneur — that General 
 Gourgaud — did he have any — ^any daughter?" 
 
 The Frenchman rose in a businesslike way, the 
 way of a teacher of language at the end of a lesson. 
 
 "One," he answered briefly in a matter-of-fact 
 tone. And then, "Mademoiselle has talked enchant- 
 ingly well this evening, but I have perhaps talked too 
 much. I may have tired Mademoiselle. I have the 
 honor to wish you a good evening." 
 
 His heels together, he stood in the doorway and 
 made his bow. "Au plaisir de vous revoir," he said, 
 and was gone. 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE PRINCE COMES 
 
 THE glittering morning sunlight of late March 
 flooded the eastern dining-room of Roanoke 
 House. As the bare branches of the trees outside 
 moved up and down in the biting breeze, the shad- 
 ows danced on brown blackness of wainscoted walls, 
 and against that deep background Lucy Hampton's 
 gold head shone as Madonna heads shine from dim 
 canvasses. A fire blazed on the hearth; hot dishes 
 steamed on the table; the girl's face, the crackling 
 fire, the polished silver reflected from polished ma- 
 hogany ; the soft shod, solicitous service of a white- 
 aproned negro ; all this made the room fragrant with 
 homeliness in spite of the fact that one could see 
 one's breath in the air. But they were used to it — 
 the hardy Virginians of those days of open fires and 
 no furnaces, of many luxuries and few comforts, 
 and in happy ignorance of world progress, they suf- 
 fered cheerfully and were strong. 
 Colonel Henry Hampton faced a portrait of the 
 301 
 
302 THE MARSHAL 
 
 first Henry Hampton of Roanoke, stately with brass 
 buttons and silver lace, set in the panels seventy-five 
 years before. Lucy had concluded her broiled 
 chicken and bacon and hot bread, and now as he, 
 late for breakfast always, followed in her wake, he 
 read the Norfolk and Portsmouth Herald with 
 which a colored boy had that morning ridden out 
 from Norfolk, eight miles away. It was before the 
 time of daily papers, except in a large city or two, 
 and this of once a week was an event; a boy was 
 sent into Norfolk the day before its publication that 
 the colonel might have it at the earliest moment. 
 
 The colonel's heavy-dragoon type of face was 
 handsome and weak ; a bushy mustache jutted from 
 beneath his fine nose, as if in an effort to make it 
 soldierly and masculine. The features were mod- 
 eled on the big-boned, lean features of men who had 
 done things ; only the spirit was left out. It was as 
 if a man who inherited his ancestor's massive silver 
 platters had no meat to put on them. His uncertain 
 eyes, under their splendid brows, wandered from 
 column to column of the little sheet, leaving this and 
 that article unfinished, and as he read he reported 
 bits of news to his daughter. 
 
 "How would you like to see a live prince, Lucy?" 
 he inquired. "The Herald states that we have one 
 
THE PRINCE COMES 303 
 
 with us, not ten miles from Roanoke. Prince Louis 
 Napoleon was landed from the Andromede, in Nor- 
 folk, only yesterday. Poor young man," he went 
 on condescendingly, "he has no money, I under- 
 stand, and here he is stranded in a strange country 
 with his fortune to make, and no assets but a title. 
 It's little that will help him in the states !" 
 
 Colonel Hampton glanced over to see if she were 
 listening to his words of wisdom ; he liked an atten- 
 tive audience. He was enchanted with her expres- 
 sion. She had dropped knife and fork and, with 
 her blue eyes stretched wide, her white teeth shin- 
 ing, was drinking in his sentences. 
 
 "Father ! Is Prince Louis in Norfolk ? How can 
 it be? Monsieur Beaupre was talking to me about 
 him last night, and he did not dream of his coming 
 here. Surely he would have known if the Prince 
 were expected." 
 
 Colonel Hampton smiled sarcastically. "You will 
 find that your father occasionally knows more than 
 even Monsieur Beaupre, and even on French ques- 
 tions, I may add," he announced, from a mountain 
 height. "But in one point you are right, my dear. 
 The Prince was not expected by any one, not even 
 by the great Chevalier Beaupre. He was exiled 
 from France, as you may or may not know, some 
 
304 THE MARSHAL 
 
 four and a half months ago, on account of his at- 
 tempt on Strasburg, and was sent out on the Andro- 
 mede, with sealed orders. No one knew his desti- 
 nation until he landed, on the twenty-eighth, in Nor- 
 folk. There" — the colonel got up and walked to the 
 fireplace and stood with his back to the blaze, and 
 his legs far apart, masterfully. "There, my dear, 
 I have given you a dose of history for a female mind. 
 How are you going to amuse your little self to- 
 day?" 
 
 The female mind paid no attention to the digres- 
 sion. Lucy had long ago, finally if unconsciously, 
 put her father's personality into its right place. 
 
 "Father, is the Prince really poor and alone in this 
 country ?" 
 
 "Poor — yes, I fancy — I am quite certain, in fact. 
 Alone — that depends. The authorities of Norfolk 
 received him with some distinction, the Herald 
 states, but he is putting up at the inn — one would 
 conclude that he was not an invited guest at many of 
 our great houses." 
 
 Lucy flew like a bird across to the fireplace. Her 
 hands went up to either side of the colonel's face. 
 "Father, quick! Have Thunder saddled, and ride 
 in — quick, father — and bring the Prince out here to 
 stay with us. Give the order to Sambo, or I shall." 
 
THE PRINCE COMES 305 
 
 Colonel Hampton's eyes widened with surprise. 
 "Why, but Lucy," he stammered. "Why — ^but why 
 should I ? What claim have we — " 
 
 "Oh, nonsense," and Lucy shook her head impa- 
 tiently. "Who has more claim? Aren't we Vir- 
 ginians of the James River princes in our own coun- 
 try, too? Hasn't our family reigned in Roanoke 
 longer than ever his reigned in Europe? Haven't 
 we enough house-room and servants to make him as 
 comfortable as in a palace ? But that isn't the most 
 important. It is a shame to us all, father, that no 
 one has invited him before, that a strange gentleman 
 of high station should have to lodge at an inn. Why 
 hasn't Cousin George Harrison asked him to Bran- 
 don ? And the Carters at Shirley, and the people at 
 Berkeley — ^what do they mean by not asking him? 
 But we won't let Virginian hospitality be stained. 
 We will ask him. You will ride to Norfolk at once, 
 will you not, father dear?" 
 
 The touch on his cheek was pleasant to the vain 
 and affectionate man, but the spirit of th& girl's 
 speech, the suggestion of the courtesy due from him 
 as a reigning prince,«to this other Prince forlorn and 
 exiled, this was pleasanter. He pursed his lips and 
 smiled down. 
 
 "Out of the mouth of babes," he remarked, and 
 
3o6 THE MARSHAL' 
 
 drew his brows together as if under stress of large 
 machinery behind them. "My little girl, you have 
 rather a sensible idea. I had overlooked before, 
 that" — he cleared his throat and black Aaron stand- 
 ing tray in hand across the room, jumped and rolled 
 his eyes— "that," he continued, "a man of my im- 
 portance has duties of hospitality, even to a for- 
 eigner who comes without introduction into the 
 country." 
 
 "Introduction — ^bother!" remarked the daughter. 
 "The idea of a nephew of the Emperor of France 
 needing" — she stopped. This was the wrong line 
 of argument. "I think he will be delighted to come 
 to Roanoke House," she went on. "It is so beauti- 
 ful even in winter," and she looked proudly about 
 the fine room, and the portraits on its walls looked 
 back at her proudly too. 
 
 "Many distinguished guests have been delighted 
 to visit Roanoke," Colonel Hampton answered stiff- 
 ly. "The bankrupt sprig of a parvenu royalty — " 
 
 "Father — what horrid big words! I haven't any 
 idea what they mean," the girl interrupted, "except 
 that you're abusing Prince Louis, who is probably 
 having a bad breakfast in that stuffy inn. Go along, 
 father, bring him out to Roanoke, and we'll show 
 Jiim what Virginia breakfasts are like." 
 
THE PRINCE COMES 307 
 
 Colonel Hampton's sense of importance was 
 tickled by the thought of having for a guest a scion 
 of so famous a house; his genuine instinct of kindli- 
 ness was aroused ; moreover, time hung on his hands 
 these late winter days, and the plan appealed to him 
 as a diversion. 
 
 "Aaron, tell Sambo to saddle Thunder," he or- 
 dered. 
 
 Prince Louis, in his dingy parlor at the inn, looked 
 at his visitor from between half-shut eyelids, and 
 measured him, soul and body. He considered the 
 invitation for a silent moment. This was one of 
 the great men of the coimtry. The Prince had al- 
 ready heard his name and the name of his historic 
 home. It was well to have influential friends, more 
 particularly as no letter awaited him as he had hoped 
 from his uncle, Joseph Bonaparte, with the Ameri- 
 can introductions for which he had asked. A visit 
 of a few days at this place of Roanoke could do no 
 harm and might lead to good. 
 
 "I thank you very much, Monsieur le Colonel," Tie 
 said gravely, yet graciously. "You are most good 
 to desire that I visit you. I will do so with pleasure." 
 
 The people of Norfolk were awake to the fact 
 
3o8 THE MARSHAL 
 
 that an exiled Prince had suddenly dropped among 
 them, and when an aquiline-faced, foreign-looking, 
 small, young man rode out from the city by Colonel 
 Hampton's side, sitting his horse like an accom- 
 plished cavalryman, more than one citizen turned to 
 look with comprehending interest. To a southerner 
 it would seem not out of proportion that the czar of 
 Russia and the monarchs of England and France 
 should together visit his city, and in offering them 
 his best he would rest content as to their entertain- 
 ment, which is surely the well-bred attitude. So that 
 the good people of Norfolk who stopped to gaze a 
 moment at the future Emperor of France, the kins- 
 man of one of earth's greatest conquerors, were not 
 unduly impressed. One and another lifted his hat 
 and bowed deeply to Colonel Hampton with a smile 
 of approval. It was right, it was traditional, that 
 the Hamptons of Roanoke House should take 
 charge of a distinguished stranger, and, moreover, 
 it was extremely pleasant for the stranger. And 
 impassive Prince Louis, who appeared to look at 
 nothing, missed neither the self-respecting interest 
 of the citizens in himself, nor their profounder 
 sense of the importance of his host. Very little 
 passed within range of those dull gray eyes which 
 
THE PRINCE COMES 309 
 
 was not filed away for reference in the mind behind 
 the mask. 
 
 Out they rode through the sun-lighted, wind- 
 whipped country, dozing restfully through its last 
 winter's nap, stirring already at the step of lively 
 April on the threshold. The air was sharp, and 
 nipped at the Prince's fingers and toes, but it was e;c- 
 hilaration to be across a horse again, and the exile's 
 spirit — the case-hardened heart of steel which fail- 
 ure and misfortune never broke till it broke forever 
 at Sedan — grew buoyant. That "something about 
 the outside of a horse which is good for the inside 
 of a man" worked its subtle charm on this finished 
 horseman and horse lover, and he was gently re- 
 sponsive as the colonel talked fluently on. 
 
 It was of his own affairs that the colonel talked, 
 of his thousands of acres, his hundreds of slaves, 
 his methods, his crops, his tobacco, and then of his 
 family and their history here in Virginia, and at 
 last, most absorbing topic of all, he talked of him- 
 self. He explained to the Prince how it was that 
 he came to speak French so well, and not a gleam in 
 the filmy gray gaze betrayed the Prince's opinion. 
 But a pause came in the stream of words, and Prince 
 Louis' resonant voice filled it. 
 
3IO THE MARSHAL 
 
 "Does it so happen. Monsieur le Colonel, that 
 there is in these parts a Frenchman of — of instruc- 
 tion — a man whom I might use as a secretary? I 
 shall have need to-morrow to write letters. Would 
 you know of such a man, Monsieur le Colonel?" 
 
 Nothing pleased Monsieur le Colonel more than 
 to be master of the situation. "Most certainly," he 
 answered blandly and felt that the Prince must no- 
 tice how no demand could find Colonel Hampton 
 at a loss. "Most certainly. My daughter's French 
 master would be the very fellow. He is intelligent 
 and well educated, and what is more, he is a most 
 ardent adherent of your family. Prince. He has 
 talked to Miss Hampton with such a vehement en- 
 thusiasm that, by the Lord Harry, I believe she ex- 
 pects to see you fly in with wings, sir — I believe she 
 does," and the colonel laughed loudly and heartily. 
 It was as good a joke as he had ever made. 
 
 A vague movement twisted the muscles of the 
 Prince's mouth, but it was a regretful smile. He" 
 was wondering if the inn parlor would not have 
 been better than this fine landscape and good horse 
 with Colonel Hampton's steady conversation. But 
 he had plenty of French politeness. "It is good of 
 Mademoiselle to give me her favor," he said gra- 
 ciously. "Mademoiselle is young — a little girl?" 
 
THE PRINCE COMES 311 
 
 "Ho— ho! Not at all! Far from it. You'll 
 find it dangerous to say that to Miss Hampton her- 
 self, Prince. She would most likely answer some- 
 thing saucy to convince you of her antiquity. Six- 
 teen she is, and our southern girls mature young. 
 According to my fancy she is of a marriageable age, 
 and I will tell you in confidence, sir, what I would 
 not tell every man — I have selected the man she is 
 to marry." 
 
 "Ah!" the Prince murmured. Certainly the inn 
 parlor would have been better than confidences. 
 And then, as the colonel's air seemed to demand 
 something, "Is it known who is to be the happy 
 man?" 
 
 The colonel pursed his lips, and shook his head 
 slowly. "Well," he said deliberately, "well, it cer- 
 tainly is not known in general." 
 
 "A thousand pardons !" Prince Louis hastened to 
 say. "I am far from demanding your family secrets. 
 Monsieur. I simply — how do you say it? — made 
 conversation. Shall we not talk of the country. 
 Monsieur?" 
 
 But the colonel felt an expansion of brotherly 
 love toward this quiet young man with the mighty 
 background, who would not lift a finger to impress 
 him, The deep and genuine haughtiness so care- 
 
312 THE MARSHAL 
 
 fully hidden under his gentle manner had its effect 
 on the soul which spread its wares ever before the 
 world. He was conscious of a desire to become 
 intimate with his guest. He turned and laid a 
 hand on the other's arm, blandly ignorant that the 
 muscles tightened against it. 
 
 "Not at all, not at all, Prince. I feel it an honor 
 that I should be able to impart to you, and I know 
 that I am safe in imparting to you the arrangement 
 of a family alliance. My daughter Lucy, although 
 she herself does not as yet know it, is destined to be- 
 come the wife of the oldest son of my cousin. Car- 
 ter Hampton, himself my namesake, Henry Hamp- 
 ton the fifth. His estate, my cousin Carter, his 
 father, being dead, adjoins my own, and this mar- 
 riage will unite the two places under the old name, 
 a most fortunate circumstance in these days of 
 changing houses and broken fortunes, you will ad- 
 mit." 
 
 The colonel, with his whole soul on his own af- 
 fairs, did not think of a house, better known than 
 his, whose broken fortune knew no immediate hope 
 of healing, but the heir of the house smiled another 
 ghost of a smile. The voice flowed on. 
 
 "The young man himself is in every way deserv- 
 ing of even so brilliant a match as this. He is a 
 
THE PRINCE COMES 313 
 
 man of parts and has traveled in foreign countries. 
 He is of an attractive personality — in fact" — the 
 colonel smirked — "in fact, my flatterers say that he 
 resembles me strikingly." 
 
 "One could ask no more," Prince Louis answered 
 neatly, and the colonel was satisfied. 
 
 And before them, at that moment, rose a stately 
 picture. A large old house, built of dark red brick 
 brought from England, towered suddenly from out 
 of the bare trees of its park like a monument of 
 calm hospitality. Its steep roof was set with dor- 
 mer windows; its copings and its casements were 
 white stone; a white stone terrace stretched before 
 it. At one front, as they came, was the carriage en- 
 trance, and the squares of a formal English garden, 
 walled with box hedges, lay sleeping before the 
 springtime ; at the opposite side a wide lawn fell to 
 a massive brick wall, spaced with stone pillars, 
 guarding the grounds from the flowing of the James 
 River. General Hampton gazed at the home of his 
 people and then at his guest, and he cast the harness 
 of his smallnesses and stood out in the simple and 
 large cordiality which is the heritage above others 
 of southern people. 
 
 "You are welcome to Roanoke, Prince," he said. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 BROTHERS 
 
 COLONEL HAMPTON'S study was dark 
 from floor to ceiling with brown oak wains- 
 coting and was lightened by a dull brightness of 
 portraits. An ancestor in a scarlet coat, the red 
 turned yellow and brown with time; an ancestress 
 in dimmed glory of blue satin and lace and pearls; 
 a judge in his wig and gown, gave the small room 
 importance. A broad window looked through bare 
 branches, lacy-black against sky, across a rolling 
 country and groups of woodland. 
 
 On the morning of the first day of April, 1837, 
 Prince Louis Napoleon Bonaparte stood at this win- 
 dow, staring at brown fields and trying to trace a 
 likeness between this new world and the ancient 
 country which he called his ; France, where, since he 
 was seven years old, he had been allowed to spend 
 but a few weeks; France, which had freshly exiled 
 him ; France, the thought of which ruled him, as he 
 meant one day to rule her; France, for whom he 
 
 314 
 
BROTHERS 315 
 
 was eating his heart out to-day, as always, thous- 
 ands of miles from her shores. His gaze grew in- 
 trospective; in a long panorama he saw the scenes 
 of his picturesque life — surely a life of heights and 
 depths such as few have known. Dimly he remem- 
 bered the gorgeousness of his uncle's court, himself 
 conspicuous there — a little lad of five — a princeling 
 whose birth had been celebrated by one hundred 
 and twenty millions of people, in twenty tongues and 
 dialects ; vaguely he felt the agitated atmosphere of 
 the Hundred Days; of the time when he and his 
 brother, in hiding with their mother's dressmaker, 
 had trodden Paris streets as children of the people. 
 And then came his theatrical escape, with mother 
 and brother, into an exile lasting unbroken for fif- 
 teen years. 
 
 He recalled the happy life at Arenenberg, in 
 Switzerland, and the work and play and soldierly 
 training which all pointed, in the boy's mind, to one 
 end — to serve France — a service which did not at 
 that time mean sovereignty, for the Duke of Reich- 
 stadt. Napoleon's son, was alive and the head of the 
 house of Bonaparte. He thought of his short career, 
 his and his well-beloved brother's together, with the 
 Italian insurgents against the Austrians, and the 
 lonely rhan's heart longed for his own people as he 
 
3i6 THE MARSHAL 
 
 went over again that time of excitement and sor- 
 row, ending with the older boy's death at Forli and 
 his own illness and narrow escape from capture. 
 
 "What a mother!" he cried aloud, tossing up his 
 hands with French demonstrativeness, as the mem- 
 ory came to him of the days in Ancona when he lay 
 at death's door, hidden in the very room next that 
 of the Austrian general, saved only at last by the 
 marvelous mother's wit and courage. The journey 
 through Italy to France, that was drama enough for 
 one life. Recognized at every turn, betrayed never, 
 and ending with — Prince Louis smiled his slow dim 
 smile — a fitting ending indeed to days whose every 
 minute was adventure. He thought of the landlord 
 of the inn, the old cavalryman; the young French- 
 man — Beaupre — that was the name; it was set in 
 his memory; it had been in that tenacious memory 
 since an afternoon of 1824, when a runaway school- 
 boy prince had slipped over the Jura, and played 
 with three other children, about a ruined castle; he 
 saw Frangois Beaupre take reverently in his hand 
 the sword which Napoleon had held — and then the 
 alarm! That was a fine sight — ^the dash of the 
 youngster through the startled mob of Austrians; 
 the flying leap to the horse ; the skirmish to get free, 
 and, at last, the rush of the chase. He had seen it 
 
BROTHERS 317 
 
 all, watching quietly while his mother and the land- 
 lord implored him to hide himself. That young 
 Frenchman — if he should be alive — if ever he 
 should meet him again Prince Louis would not for- 
 get. It was psychological that he should have been 
 thinking this when a knock sounded deferentially on 
 the door of the room. But picturesque coincidences 
 happen in lives as well as on the stage ; in Louis Na- 
 poleon's there was more than one. "Entres!" he 
 called sharply, and then, "Come in !" 
 
 The door swung slowly and Aaron, white-aproned 
 and white-eyeballed, stood in it. 
 
 "Marse Prince," he stated with a dignity of serv- 
 ice which crowned heads could not daunt, "ole Marse 
 sen' me bring you dis hyer Marse Gopray." 
 
 A light figure stepped before the black and white 
 of Aaron, and halted, and bowed profoundly. The 
 light from the window shone on the face and the 
 dark immense eyes that lifted toward Prince 
 Louis, and for a moment he stared, puzzled. Was 
 he in the present ? Surely this man was part of the 
 past which he had been reviewing. Surely he had 
 played a role in the Prince's history — where ? With 
 a flashing thought into the years he knew. 
 
 "Mon ami!" cried Louis Bonaparte, and sprang 
 forward and stretched out both hands, his royalty 
 
3i8 THE MARSHAL 
 
 forgotten in the delight of seeing a face which re- 
 called his youth and his mother. 
 
 Frangois, two minutes later, found himself stand- 
 ing, bursting with loyalty and pride, with the 
 Prince's hands clasping his, and the Prince's trans- 
 formed face beaming on him. 
 
 "You rode like the devil," said the Prince. "But 
 the Austrians had the horses. That poor Bleu-bleu ! 
 How did you get away? Where have you been? 
 Mon Dieu, but we looked for you, Zappi and I !" 
 
 "But no, your Highness, I did not get away," 
 smiled Francois Beaupre as if imparting a joyful 
 bit of news. "They caught me." 
 
 And he told briefly his story of the five years in 
 prison, of the desperate escape, of the rescue and 
 voyage to America, of his wrecked health, not yet 
 reestablished. Through the account shone the un- 
 conquerable French gaiety. Another thing there was 
 which a Frenchman and a Bonaparte could not fail 
 to see — that the thought of his service to the house 
 of Bonaparte had been a sustaining pride, and the 
 hope of future service an inspiring hope. With en- 
 tire faith in his own mission, held to through years 
 of trial. Prince Louis knew the key-note of that faith, 
 and heard its sound like music through the other 
 man's words. Here also was a life with a guiding 
 
BROTHERS 319 
 
 star, and his spirit stirred to see that the star which 
 led the other was his own. That currents, which 
 would one day meet in the great river of his power, 
 ran underground through the world, was part of his 
 belief; here was one of them. Who knew what this 
 man was fated to mean to him? Three times al- 
 ready he had dropped into his path from a clear sky ; 
 twice he had saved his life by headlong eager sacri- 
 fice, and here, thousands of miles from those scenes, 
 the light figure, the startling eyes appeared to him 
 again, at another time of deep discouragement. It 
 seemed a happy omen; superstition and gratitude 
 laid hold together on the Prince's troubled mind. 
 He threw himself back into Colonel Hampton's 
 leathe,r arm-chair, throne-like in impressiveness and 
 size; the mask of impassivity closed on his colorless 
 featues. 
 
 "Sit there. Monsieur," he ordered, "and tell me 
 your life." 
 
 Simply, yet dramatically as was his gift, the 
 young man went over the tale which he had told to 
 Lucy Hampton, that and more. And the Prince 
 listened to every word. He, too, had the French 
 sensitiveness to theatrical effect, and his over- 
 wrought itnagination seemed to see the hand of des- 
 tiny visibly joining this story to his. Here was a 
 
320 THE MARSHAL 
 
 legacy from Napoleon ; an instrument created by his 
 uncle, which he, the heir, should use. Already the 
 man had proved that he brought good fortune; al- 
 ready he had deserved well of the Bonapartes; al- 
 ready his entire confidence in the return of the 
 family to their own had cheered the lonely Prince 
 beyond belief. There was a long silence when Fran- 
 cois had finished, and Louis' deep-pitched voice 
 broke it. 
 
 " 'One day perhaps a Marshal of France under 
 another Bonaparte,' " he repeated thoughtfully. "It 
 was the accolade, the old right of royalty," and 
 gazed, as if reflecting, at the other man's face. 
 
 Heightened color told how much it meant to 
 Frangois Beaupre to hear those words spoken by 
 the Prince. He waited a moment before he answered. 
 
 "May the God above kings bring your Highness 
 to your throne," he said low, as if the weight of the 
 wish hushed him. "That I should be a Marshal of 
 your Highness' empire is not of importance, yet it 
 was the prophecy of the Emperor. It will happen — 
 I believe it will happen as surely as your Highness 
 will be Emperor." 
 
 That one man, not a great man, should say such 
 words seems a little thing to influence the mind of 
 a personage such as was Louis Napoleon even in his 
 
BROTHERS 321 
 
 dark days. But his mind was thirsty for such words, 
 and such a confidence to reinforce his own. The fail- 
 ure at Strasburg had been a bitter blow, and his later 
 trial and condemnation to exile, pluckily as he had 
 borne it, had shaken his courage; the four months 
 at sea had been solitary, the landing in an unknown 
 country without friends or resources was hard and 
 lonely. It seemed as if a sword were fitted into his 
 empty hand as he watched the illuminated face of 
 this man and listened to the words which breathed 
 sure trust in a destiny, that was the destiny of both. 
 Since the world began, in the ranks of men there 
 have been those whom the world has laughed at, 
 persecuted and followed. It is they who, stepping 
 out of the lines where the multitude marks time, 
 rush forward, often to pitfalls, to sudden graves; 
 sometimes to heights where men see and admire, 
 and follow in herds. If the first, they are despised 
 and forgotten, but if the other, they are discoverers, 
 inventors, heroes. Yet there is the same enthusiasm 
 and the same stress in the hearts of those who suc- 
 ceed and of those who fail; there is for both the 
 vision which duller eyes do not see, the beautiful, 
 unattainable for which one must risk everything. 
 These are the dreamers, the fanatics, perhaps, and 
 perhaps they move the world. To Franqois Beaupre 
 
322 THE MARSHAL 
 
 a wide dream of power and happiness for France 
 took concrete form in the name of the Emperor 
 whose looming personality had brushed his child- 
 hood. To his mind — the mind of a devotee — that 
 touch had sealed his years to the service of the 
 family which meant for him France's greatness. 
 
 As the man who was to be Napoleon III. gazed 
 dully out toward the dull fields, to all seeming cold 
 and apathetic, the other began to speak again, his 
 face working, his tones trembling. 
 
 "My Prince, I will tell you — ^though it may be 
 of little moment to know — that it is not for my own 
 advancement that I care. It is the truth that I would 
 throw away a hundred lives if I had them, to see 
 the house of Bonaparte rule France. It is only so, 
 I believe, that France can become great once more. 
 We need heroes to lead us, we Frenchmen, not shop- 
 keeper kings such as Louis Phillipe ; if it has not a 
 hero the nation loses courage, and its interest in 
 national life. But the very name of Napoleon is 
 inspiration — it pricks the blood ; a monarch of that 
 name on France's throne, and our country will wake, 
 will live. You, my Prince, are the hope of the 
 house of Napoleon." 
 
 With a quick step forward he threw himself on 
 his knees before the quiet figure in the throne-like 
 
BROTHERS 323 
 
 chair; he seized the Prince's hand and, head bent, 
 kissed it with passion. There was a line of color in 
 each cheek as his face lifted, and his brilliant look 
 was shot with a tear. 
 
 "If I may die believing that I have helped to win 
 your throne, I shall die in happiness." 
 
 Prince Louis had his mother's warm heart, and 
 this went to it. He put his hand on the other's 
 shoulder, familiarly as if the two were equals, kins- 
 men. 
 
 "Mon ami" he said kindly, "do not speak of dy- 
 ing for me — ^live for me — ^that is better. We will 
 rise together. Remember, we were brothers for 
 some days; remember, I twice owe you my life; > 
 also I can not forget that it was in the uniform of 
 my own dead brother you risked yourself for me. 
 Luck will turn— we both believe it, and you shall 
 be, as the Emperor said, 'a Marshal of France under 
 another Bonaparte.' " The laconic Prince had found 
 language — ^he was talking, with unused freedom. 
 He went on. "The sovereignty of the people was 
 consecrated in France by the most powerful revolu- 
 tion the world has ever seen. I stand for the rights 
 deposited by the people in the hands of my family — 
 the rights which the nation has never revoked." 
 
 The brotherly touch on Frangois' shoulder was 
 
324 THE MARSHAL 
 
 withdrawn, and with gentle dignity, with a glance, 
 the Prince lifted him to his feet, and Francois stood 
 happy, dazed, before him. He found himself telling 
 his plans, his methods, his efiforts to fit himself for 
 the usefulness that might be on the way. 
 
 "I have studied enormously, my Prince. All 
 known books on warlike subjects, all I could borrow 
 or steal I have studied. Ah, yes! I know much 
 of those things." 
 
 Louis Bonaparte, with an exhaustive military edu- 
 cation, a power of application and absorption beyond 
 most men in Europe, let the gleam of a smile escape. 
 He listened with close attention while Francois told 
 of his organization of the youth of the neighbor- 
 hood into a cavalry company, and of their drill 
 twice a week. 
 
 "And you are the captain. Monsieur?" 
 
 Francois smiled a crafty, worldly-wise smile — or 
 perhaps it was as if a child would seem crafty and 
 worldly-wise. "No, my Prince," he answered, shak- 
 ing his. head sagely. "That would not be best. I 
 am little known, a foreigner. They think much of 
 their old families, the people of these parts. So 
 that it is better for the success of the company that 
 the captain should be of the nobility of the country. 
 
BROTHERS ^S 
 
 One sees that. So the cfiptain of the company is 
 Monsieur Henry Hampton, the younger, the kins- 
 man of Monsieur le Colonel, and a young man of 
 great goodness, and the best of friends to me. 
 Everything that I can do for his pleasure is my own 
 pleasure." 
 
 The Prince turned his expressionless gaze on the 
 animated face. "Mademoiselle Lucy likes the young 
 monsieur ?" 
 
 "But yes, my Prince — she likes every one. Mad- 
 emoiselle Lucy. It is sunshine, her kindness ; it falls 
 everywhere and blesses where it falls. She loves 
 Henry — as a brother." 
 
 "As a brother!" the Prince repeated consideringly. 
 "Yes, a brother. You find Mademoiselle Lucy of — 
 of a kind disposition." 
 
 "Beyond words, and most charming," Franqois 
 answered steadily, and flushed a little. He felt him- 
 self being probed. With that the facile, mysterious, 
 keen mind of the Prince leaped, it seemed, a world- 
 wide chasm. "That most winning little girl of the 
 ruined chateau of Vieques — our playmate Alixe — 
 you remember how she stated, 'I am Alixe,' and 
 was at once shipwrecked with embarrassment?" 
 
 "I remember," Franqois said shortly, and was 
 
326 THE MARSHAL 
 
 conscious that he breathed quickly and that his 
 throat was dry, and that the Prince knew of both 
 troubles. 
 
 "Is she still 'Alixe' — the same Alixe?" inquired 
 the Prince, turning ostentatiously to the window. 
 "Has she grown up as sweet and fresh and brilliant 
 a flower as the rosebud promised ?" 
 
 Frangois, hearing his own heart beat, attempted 
 to answer in a particularly casual manner, which is^ 
 a difficult and sophisticated trick. He failed at it. 
 "They say — I think — she has — oh, but yes, and — I 
 think" — ^he stammered and the Prince cut short his 
 sufferings. "Ah, yes ! I see that it is with you, as 
 with Monsieur Henry, a case of devoted brother- 
 hood. You love her as a brother — you will not 
 boast of her. 
 
 "You have done well. Chevalier Beaupre. You 
 have done so well that when the time is ripe again 
 — it will not be long — for Strasburg must be wiped 
 out in success — that I shall send for you to help me, 
 and I shall know that you will be ready. I see that 
 the star which leads us both is the only light which 
 shines for you. It holds your undivided soul, Cheva- 
 lier — I am right?" 
 
 Frangois turned his swiftly changing face toward 
 the speaker, drawn with a feeling which swept over 
 
BROTHERS 327 
 
 him; for a moment he did not answer. Then he 
 spoke in a low tone. 
 
 "When a knight of the old time went to battle," 
 he said, "he wore on his helmet the badge of his 
 lady and carried the thought of her in his heart. A 
 man fights better so." 
 
 And the silent Prince understood. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 HOW LUCY TOLD 
 
 THE Prince was gone. There had been festivi- 
 ties and formalities, great dinners, gatherings 
 of the Virginia nobility to do honor to his highness 
 at Roanoke House and elsewhere; everywhere the 
 Chevalier Beaupre had been distinguished by his 
 highness' most marked favor. And Lucy Hamp- 
 ton's eyes had shone with quiet delight to see it and 
 to see the effect on her father. For the colonel, con- 
 fused in his mind as to how it might be true, re- 
 luctantly acknowledged that there must be some- 
 thing of importance about this Chevalier Beaupre, 
 that a Prince should treat him as a brother. He be- 
 lieved that it would be best to treat him — he also — 
 at least as a gentleman. So the French lessons were 
 continued and the Jefferson Troop was encouraged, 
 and Frangois was asked often to Roanoke House. 
 And as the months rolled on he tried, with every 
 thoughtful and considerate effort to express to the 
 
 328 
 
HOW LUCY TOLD 329 
 
 little lady of the manor his gratitude for the good- 
 ness of her family. It troubled him more than a 
 little that the early friendliness and intimacy of 
 Harry Hampton seemed to be wearing off. The 
 boy did not come so often to Carnifax, and when he 
 came he did not stay for hours, for days sometimes, 
 as was his way at first. He was uneasy with his 
 friend, and his friend wondered and did not under- 
 stand, but hesitated to push a way into the lad's 
 heart. "He will tell me in time," thought Franqois, 
 and, sure of his own innocence, waited for the time. 
 Meanwhile he was going home. Going, much 
 against the advice of the Norfolk doctor, who 
 warned him that he was not yet well or strong, that 
 the out-of-door life in the mild Virginia climate 
 should be continued perhaps for two years more, 
 before he went back to the agitation and effort of a 
 Bonapartist agent in France. But he could not wait ; 
 he must see his old home, his mother, his father, 
 and all the unforgotten faces. He longed to watch 
 the black lashes curl upward from the blue of Alixe's 
 eyes. He longed to hear her clear voice with its 
 boyish note of courage. It would put new life into 
 him, that voice. It was seven years now and more 
 since he had left them all at a day's notice to go to 
 Pietro in Italy — ^to a living death of five years, to 
 
330 THE MARSHAL 
 
 many undreamed of happenings. The fever was on 
 him and he must go home. 
 
 There was to be a celebration for the new and 
 very fashionable cavalry troop of which Frangois 
 was the unofficial backbone and author. In the 
 great grassy paddock at Bayly's Folly the proud 
 mother of eighteen-year-old Caperton Bayly — first 
 lieutenant, and the most finished horseman in the 
 Virginia county — had invited the gentry from miles 
 about to feast with her and to watch her son and his 
 friends show how the Chevalier Beaupre had made 
 them into soldiers. They came in shoals, driving 
 from far off over bad roads in big lurching chariots, 
 or riding in gay companies, mostly of older men 
 and girls and young boys, because all of the gilded 
 youth were in the ranks that day. 
 
 The day was perfect; a day remembered in that 
 part of Virginia among the great families who came 
 to see their boys ride. Yeardleys and Carters and 
 Littletons and Letchers and Bowmans were there; 
 and Joyneses and Harrisons and Bowdoins and Cas- 
 tleburys and Churchills and Wises and Fitchetts and 
 Stewarts and Wards — and the rest of them, names 
 there in Virginia when Charles I. was king. The big 
 carriages were drawn up in a massive line and the 
 horsemen and horsewomen stood about pictur- 
 
HOW LUCY TOLD 331 
 
 esquely in and out of the saddle, talking, watching, 
 admiring the surprising military things which their 
 sons and brothers and sweethearts were doing. And 
 the lads went through their drill nobly, and the stal- 
 wart body of men and horse-flesh formed in fours, 
 in twos, melted into long-drawn lines, wound into 
 close concentric circles and unwound again, and 
 charged and dismounted and leaped into the saddle, 
 at Harry Hampton's shouts of command, with sur-. 
 prising accuracy; also to the unbounded pride of 
 Francois, who, in the ranks, watched every evolu- 
 tion, every move of every rider, with anxious de- 
 light. They did wonders ; the horses were on their 
 best behavior and pushed into the places they had 
 learned so eagerly that the riders needed hardly to 
 guide them at all ; the whole graceful, inspiring ex- 
 hibition of strength and skill and youth and vigor 
 went without a fault. Harry Hampton, flushed 
 with deep pleasure at this first trial of strength of 
 his life where he had been leader, was so happy that 
 Francois almost forgot to gallop to the head of the 
 line when his turn came, for joy of looking at him. 
 Then the drill was over and there was to be rough 
 riding and jumping. Hurdles were swiftly dragged 
 out and placed in a manner of ring. 
 
 "This one is very close to the bank," said Lucy 
 
332 THE MARSHAL 
 
 Hampton, standing by Bluebird and watching as 
 the negroes placed the bars. "If a horse refused 
 and turned sharp and was foolish, he might go over. 
 And the bank is steep." 
 
 "Lucy, you are a grandmotherly person," Clifford 
 Stewart — who was another girl — ^threw at her. 
 "You would like them all to ride in wadded wool 
 dressing-gowns, and to have a wall padded with 
 cotton batting to guard them." And Lucy smiled 
 and believed herself overcautious. 
 
 The excited horses came dancing up to the bar- 
 riers and lifted and were over, with or without rap- 
 ping, but not one, for the first round, refusing. 
 Then the bars were raised six inches ; six inches in 
 mid-air is a large space when one must jump it. 
 Caperton Bayly went at it first ; his mother watched 
 breathless as he flew forward, sitting erect, intense, 
 his young eyes gleaming. Over went his great 
 horse Traveler, and over the next and the next — 
 all of them; but the white heels had struck the top 
 bar twice — ^the beautiful, spirited performance was 
 not perfect. Harry Hampton came next ; all of the 
 kindly multitude gazed eagerly, hoping that the boy 
 to whom life had given less than the others might 
 win this honor he wanted. The first bars without 
 rapping; the second; and a suppressed sound of sat- 
 
HOW LUCY TOLD 333 
 
 isfaction, which might soon be a great roar of pleas- 
 ure, hummed over the field. Black Hawk came 
 rushing, snorting, pulling up to the third jump, the 
 jump where Lucy stood. And as he came a little 
 girl, high in a carriage, a chariot as one said then, 
 flourished her scarlet parasol in the air, and lost 
 hold of it, and it flew like a huge red bird into the 
 course, close to the hurdle. And Black Hawk, 
 strung to the highest point of his thoroughbred 
 nerves, saw, and a horror of the flaming living 
 thing, as it seemed, caught him, and he swerved at 
 the bar and bolted — bolted straight for the steep 
 slope. 
 
 A gasp went up from the three hundred, four 
 hundred people; the boy was dashing to death; no 
 one stirred ; every muscle was rigid — the spectators 
 were paralyzed. Not all. Franqois from his baby- 
 hood had known how to think quickly, and these 
 boys were his pride and his care ; he had thought of 
 that possible danger which Lucy had foreseen ; when 
 the jumping began, mounted on his mare Aquarelle, 
 he was posted near the head of the slope, not twenty 
 yards from the hurdle, to be at hand in any con- 
 tingency. When Harry's horse bolted, one touch 
 put Aquarelle into motion. Like a line of brown 
 light she dashed at right angles to the runaway — a 
 
334 THE MARSHAL 
 
 line drawn to intercept the line of Black Hawk's 
 flight. There was silence over the field — one second 
 — two seconds — ^the lines shot to the angle — ^thea 
 it came — the shock they awaited. 
 
 Black Hawk, rushing, saw the other coming and 
 swerved at the last moment — too late. The animals 
 collided, not with full force, yet for a moment it 
 looked like nothing but death for riders and mounts. 
 Harry Hampton was thrown backward to the level 
 field ; Black Hawk galloped off, frantic and unhurt, 
 across it; Aquarelle, one saw, lay on the very edge 
 of the drop and was scrambling to her feet with live- 
 liness enough to assure her safety ; of Franqois there 
 was no sign. In half a minute the breathless still 
 crowd was in an uproar, and a hundred men were 
 jostling one another to reach the scene of the acci- 
 dent. 
 
 It was two minutes, perhaps, before Caperton 
 Bayly, with a negro boy at his heels, with Jack Lit- 
 tleton and Harry Wise and a dozen other lads rac- 
 ing back of him, had plunged over the drop of land 
 where Franqois had disappeared. Two minutes are 
 enough sometimes for a large event. In that two 
 minutes Lucy Hampton, without conscious volition, 
 ■by an instinct as simple and imperative as a bird's 
 instinct to shield her young, had slipped from her 
 
HOW LUCY TOLD 335 
 
 horse Bluebird and flown across the level and down 
 over the steep bank till she found herself holding 
 Fran9ois' dark head in her arms and heard her own 
 voice saying words she had never said even to her- 
 self. 
 
 "I love you, I love you," she said, and if all the 
 world heard she did not know or care. There was 
 no world for her at that minute but the man lying 
 with his head against her heart — dead it might be, 
 but dead or alive, dearest. "I love you — ^love you — 
 love you," she repeated, as if the soul were rushing 
 out of her in the words. 
 
 With that the luminous great eyes opened, and 
 Franqois was looking at her, and she knew that he 
 had heard. And then the training of a lifetime, of 
 centuries, flooded back into her, and womanly re- 
 ticence and maidenly shame and the feelings and 
 attitude which are not primeval, as she had been 
 primeval for that one mad moment. She drew back 
 as she felt him trying to lift himself, and left him 
 free and was on her feet, and then with a shock she 
 was aware of another presence; turning she looked 
 up into the angry glow of her cousin's eyes. He 
 was not looking at her, but at the man who, dazed, 
 hurt, was trying painfully to pull himself up. Harry 
 Hampton glared at him. 
 
336 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "We will settle this later," he brought out through 
 his teeth. "I hope I can kill you." And Lucy cried 
 out: 
 
 "Shame!" she cried. "He has just saved your 
 life!" 
 
 "Damn him!" said Harry Hampton. "I do not 
 want my life at his hands. I hate him more for 
 saving me. Damn him !" 
 
 And Fran9ois, clutching at a bush, things reeling 
 about him unsteadily, looked up, friendly, wistful, 
 at the boy cursing him. 
 
 With that there was an influx of population ; the 
 whole world, apparently, tumbled down the steep 
 bank, every one far too preoccupied with help for 
 the hero to remark Harry Hampton's grim humor. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 THE FINEST THINGS 
 
 ENDURANCE, Frangois' own negro boy, 
 brought a note to Roanoke House on a morn- 
 ing five days after. It read : 
 
 "My Dear Miss Hampton : 
 
 "The doctor has given me permission to ride to- 
 morrow and I wish to ride to Roanoke House be- 
 fore all other places. Will Mademoiselle see me? 
 Will Mademoiselle permit me to see her for a short 
 time alone? I await anxiously a word from you, 
 and I am your servant, Francois Beaupre." 
 
 Mademoiselle sent a fair sheet of paper with a 
 few unsteady scratches across it, and sat down to 
 live over night, a hard business at times. But it was 
 accomplished. The colonel had ridden to Norfolk 
 for the day — had Francois known of that, one won- 
 ders ? Lucy, waiting in that small stately study with 
 the dim portraits and the wide vague view across 
 the fields of the James River, heard the gay hoof 
 337 
 
338 THE MARSHAL 
 
 beats of Aquarelle pound down the gravel under 
 the window, heard Frangois' deep gentle voice as 
 he gave the horse to Sambo, and waited one minute 
 more, the hardest minute of all. Then the door 
 had opened and he stood there — ^the miracle, as it 
 seems at such moments to a woman, possibly to a 
 man — of all the gifts and qualities worth loving. 
 
 The light on the thick bronzed hair with its dra- 
 matic white lock, the diagonal of fresh color across 
 the dark face, the wonderful brilliant eyes, the 
 strong leanness of his hands — there was something 
 in each detail, as the two gazed at each other in a 
 short silence, which caught at Lucy's soul. That 
 he was short, and so unlike all the men she had ad- 
 mired before, was somehow an added charm. The 
 compact light figure seemed worth a hundred big 
 hulks of men. The injured arm in its sling gave her 
 a pang of tenderness, a thrill of eagerness to do any- 
 thing, everything for him. A tumult of these 
 thoughts and a thousand others beat about her as 
 Frangois stood grave, alert, in the doorway. Then 
 he had made his precise bow, and she had heard his 
 voice saying gently, "Gk)od morning. Mademoiselle," 
 and the door was closed; and they were alone to- 
 gether. In a flash she felt that it could not be en- 
 dured, that she must escape. She rose hastily. 
 
THE FINEST THINGS 339 
 
 "I'm sorry I must go ; I can not stay — " 
 
 But Francois had laughed and taken her hand and 
 was holding it with a tender force which thrilled 
 her. He understood. She knew he understood the 
 shame and fear of a woman who has given love 
 unasked; she was safe in his hands; she knew that. 
 With a sigh she let her fingers rest in his and sat 
 down again and waited. 
 
 "Dear Mademoiselle Lucy," said the deep kind 
 voice, "my first friend in Virginia, my comrade, my 
 little scholar—" 
 
 Why did Lucy grow cold and quiet at these words 
 of gentleness? Franqois was sitting beside her, 
 holding her hand in both his, gazing at her with the 
 clearest affection in his look. Yet she braced her- 
 self against she did not know what. The voice went 
 on with its winning foreign inflections, its slip of 
 English now and then, and its never-to-be-described 
 power of reaching the heart. 
 
 "See, Mademoiselle," said Franqois, "we are too 
 real friends, you and I, to have deception between 
 us. We will not pretend, you and I, to each other 
 — is it not. Mademoiselle? Therefore I shall not 
 try to hide from you that I heard that day those 
 words so wonderful which you spoke to me so un- 
 worthy. I have thought of those words ever since. 
 
340 THE MARSHAL 
 
 Mademoiselle, as I lay ill with this troublesome 
 arm; ever since — ^all the time. My heart has been 
 full of a — ^gratification to you which can not be told. 
 I shall remember all my life ; I shall be honored as 
 no king could honor me, by those words. And be- 
 cause you have so touched me, and have so laid that 
 little hand on the heart of me, I am going to tell 
 you, my dear comrade and scholar, what is most 
 secret and most sacred to me." 
 
 Lucy's hand in his stiffened, but yet she did not 
 draw it away. Frangois had not begun the way a 
 lover begins — she felt that surely — ^but — it was 
 Frangois. What faithfulness and truth there was 
 in any one answered always to the truth and faith- 
 fulness of this man. In Lucy Hampton there was 
 much of both ; she left her hand lying between the 
 strong hands of the man who did not love her. 
 
 In as few words as might be, he told her of the 
 peasant child who had been lifted out of his pov- 
 erty-bound life with such large kindliness that no 
 bond which held him to that poor, yet dear life had 
 been broken; who had been left all the love of his 
 first home and yet been given a home and a training 
 and an education which set him ready for any career ; 
 he told of the big-souled, blunt, Napoleonic oflficer, 
 the seigneur; of the gray, red-roofed castle, with its 
 
THE FINEST THINGS 341 
 
 four round towers ; of handsome silent Pietro, and 
 of the unfailing long kindness of them all. Then, 
 his voice lowered, holding the girl's hand still, he 
 told her of Alixe, of the fairy child who had met 
 him on that day of his first visit and had brought 
 him to her father, the seigneur. He described a 
 little the playmate of his childhood, fearless, boyish 
 in her intrepid courage, yet always exquisitely a girl. 
 He told of the long summer vacations of the three 
 as they grew up, and the rides in the Jura valley, 
 and of that last ride when he knew that he was to 
 go to Italy next morning, and of how he had faced 
 the seigneur and told him that he loved his daughter 
 and had given her up then, instantly, for loyalty to 
 him and to Pietro. And then he told her of the 
 peasant boy in Riders' Hollow in the gray morning 
 light after the night of his escape — and how, by 
 hand on the bridle and seat in the saddle, and at 
 last by the long curl of the black lashes he had 
 known the peasant boy for Alixe. 
 ; Lucy Hampton, listening, was so thrilled with this 
 romance of a lifelong love that she could silence her 
 aching heart and her aching pride and could be — 
 with a painful sick effort — but yet could be, utterly 
 generous. There is no midway in such a case be- 
 tween entire selfishness and entire selflessness. The 
 
342 THE MARSHAL 
 
 young southern girl, wounded, shamed, cruelly hurt 
 in vanity and in love, was able to choose the larger 
 way, and taking it, felt that sharp joy of renuncia- 
 tion which is as keen and difficult to breathe and as 
 sweet in the breathing as the air of a mountain-top. 
 Trembling, she put her other little hand on Fran- 
 9ois' hands. 
 
 "I see," she said, and her voice shook and she 
 smiled mistily, but very kindly. "You could not 
 love any one but that beautiful Alixe. I — ^I would 
 not have you." 
 
 And Frangois bent hastily, with tears in his eyes, 
 and kissed the warm little hands. The uncertain 
 sliding voice went on. 
 
 "I am not — ashamed — ^that I said that — ^to you. 
 I would not have said it — not for worlds. I — 
 thought you were killed. I — didn't know what I 
 said. But I am not ashamed. I am glad that I — 
 am enough of a persdh to have known — the finest 
 things — and" — ^her voice sank and she whispered 
 the next words over the dark head bent on her hands 
 ■■ — "and to have loved them. But don't bother. I 
 shall — get over it." 
 
 The liquid tones choked a bit on that and Fran- 
 gois lifted his head quickly and his eyes flamed at 
 her. "Of course you will, my dear little girl, my 
 
THE FINEST THINGS 343 
 
 brave Mademoiselle. It is not as you think; it is 
 not serious, mon amie. It is only that your soul is 
 full of kindness and enthusiasm and eagerness to 
 stand by the unlucky. I am alone and expatriated ; 
 I have had a little of misfortune and you are sorry 
 for me. It is that. Ah, I know. I am very old 
 and wise, me. It would never do," he went on. 
 "The noblesse of Virginia would rise in a revolution 
 if it should be that the princess of Roanoke House 
 gave her heart to a French peasant. I am come to 
 be a man of knowledge — " And he shook his head 
 with as worldly-wise an expression as if one of 
 Guido Reni's dark angels should talk politics. He 
 went on again, smiling a little, an air of daring in 
 his manner. "Moreover, Mademoiselle Miss Lucy, 
 there is a fairy prince who awaits only the smallest 
 sign from you." 
 
 Lucy smiled. "No," she said. And then, "A 
 fairy prince — in Virginia ?" 
 
 "Ah, yes. Mademoiselle Miss Lucy. Of the true 
 noblesse, that one. A fine, big, handsome prince, the 
 right sort." 
 
 "Who ?" demanded Lucy, smiling still. 
 
 "Of such a right sort indeed that it is no matter 
 — ;ah, no, but perhaps just the thing to make one 
 love him more, that he is lame." 
 
344 THE MARSHAL' 
 
 "Harry !" Lucy's smile faded. 
 
 "But yes, indeed, mon amie" and Frangois patted 
 the little hand with his big one. "Henry, indeed. 
 Henry, who is waiting to kill me for love of you; 
 Henry, the best truest fellow, the manliest bravest 
 fellow. Who rides like Henry? Who has read all 
 the books in all the libraries like Henry? Who is 
 respected by the old men, the great men, for his 
 knowledge and his thinking and his statecraft al- 
 most — like Henry? Who has such a great heart 
 and brain and such fearless courage as Henry?" 
 
 Lucy listened to this eulogium rather astonished. 
 It strikes a girl as absurd often, when a brother or 
 a cousin is pointed out as a personage. But it pleased 
 her ; yet she did not say so. "Harry is a good boy," 
 she spoke calmly, "but — ^but it is only for con- 
 venience, for joining the lands, that he and my 
 father wish us to marry. I will not marry a man 
 to shape some fields of corn." 
 
 Francois answered gravely. "But no. Mademoi- 
 selle, never must you do that. It is not the case, 
 however, that your cousin cares about the shape of 
 corn fields. He is not interested in that. If you 
 had no corn fields, if you had nothing whatever. 
 Mademoiselle Lucy, he would give his life to marry 
 you just the same. It is you whom he loves and not 
 
THE FINEST THINGS 34S 
 
 corn fields, of any shape at all. Also he loves you 
 to madness. For that he has hated me — ^me full 
 of gratification to him forever — because he has be- 
 lieved that I would try to win from him your heart. 
 Mademoiselle Miss Lucy, I could not do that if I 
 might. If my life were not as I have told you I 
 could not play him false, my Henry — ^that dear boy 
 who wishes to kill me." Francois smiled a little, 
 half amused, half wistful. "And in all case," he went 
 on, "what chance should I have in the end against 
 that splendid Henry Hampton ? Mademoiselle, you 
 will thank me so one day that it will be very painful 
 to me, for showing you how it was not Frangois 
 Beaupre, the Frenchman, but Henry Hampton, the 
 Virginian, who was fitted to win that warm, gen- 
 erous, proud heart of mademoiselle." 
 
 "You are very loyal to your friends," Lucy said, 
 half pleased, half stabbed to the soul. 
 
 "Certainly. What for is gratification worth, 
 otherwise ?" Franqois threw at her earnestly. There 
 were a few English words too much for him still ; 
 "gratitude" seemed to be one. He stood up and his 
 great eyes glowed down at her. "Mademoiselle," he 
 said, "two women of earth, my mother and Alixe, 
 are for me the Madonnas, the crown of women," and 
 his glance lifted to the ceiling as if to Heaven, with- 
 
346 THE MARSHAL 
 
 out pose, unconscious — a look no American could 
 ever have worn. "And, voild. Mademoiselle, my 
 little scholar will always stand next to and close 
 to them." He bent over her hand and his lips 
 touched it long and tenderly. "Is it right between 
 us, mon amief Are we friends always? It is in- 
 deed so for life with me." 
 
 And little Lucy felt a healing peace settling on 
 her bruised feelings and heard herself saying gen- 
 erous words of friendship which healed also as she 
 spoke them. 
 
 Then, "I must find that savage boy Henry, and 
 beseech him to spare my life," spoke Fran9ois at last. 
 "My life is of more value to-day, that it possesses 
 a sure friend in Mademoiselle Lucy," he said and 
 smiled radiantly. And was gone. 
 
 Lucy, to her astonishment, felt light-hearted, felt 
 as if moved into a large, clear, sunshiny atmosphere 
 out of the stormy unrest which had lately held her. 
 Also she found herself thinking over the astonish- 
 ing things which Francois had said of her cousin 
 Harry. It would seem indeed as if the undying 
 love for the Chevalier Beaupre which had possessed 
 her yesterday might, after all, have been a very 
 youn^ girl's infatuation for an older man, for a 
 dramatic character — s. manner of hero worship it 
 
THE FINEST THINGS 347 
 
 might have been. Such things happen. Lucy Hamp- 
 ton, level-headed as well as warm-hearted, began to 
 see in an unphrased way, even as soon as her knight 
 had left her, that it might be so with her. And, 
 with that thought, came the thought of Hai;ry. 
 
 "He said — that Harry loved me! What non- 
 sense!" she whispered to herself. And the broken- 
 hearted one was smiling. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 ONCE MORE AT HOME 
 
 IN fewer words, with less told, Frangois' straight- 
 forwardness metamorphosed the angry lad 
 Harry Hampton into a follower more devoted than 
 he had been even in the first flush of enthusiasm 
 for his rescued prisoner. Again the boy dogged his 
 footsteps and adored him frankly. And Frangois, 
 enchanted to be friends again with his friend, won- 
 dered at the goodness and generosity of the people 
 of this world. It is roughly true that one finds life 
 in general like a mirror; that if one looks into it 
 with a smile and a cordial hand held out one meets 
 smiles and outstretched hands in return. Through 
 all his days it had happened so with this child of a 
 French village. 
 
 So that when the day came at last when he stood 
 once more on the deck of the Lovely Lucy, loaded 
 with her cargo of tobacco for foreign ports, Fran- 
 cois felt as if he were leaving home and family. 
 The long green carpet of the rolling lawn of Roan- 
 
 348 
 
ONCE MORE AT HOME 349 
 
 oke was crowded with people come to tell him 
 good-by. All of his soldier boys were there, the 
 lads trained by him, one and all ready to swear by 
 him or to die for him. Lucy and Harry stood to- 
 gether, and the servants were gathered to do him 
 honor, and people had ridden from all over the 
 county for the farewell. His eyes dimmed with 
 tears of gratefulness, he watched them as the gang- 
 plank was drawn up and the sails caught the wind 
 and the ship swung slowly out into the stream. 
 
 "Come back again — come back again," they called 
 from the shore. 
 
 Frangois heard the deep tones of the lads and 
 the rich voices of the negroes and he knew that 
 some there could not speak, even as he could not. 
 So he waved his hat silently, and the ship moved 
 faster and the faces on the lawn seemed smaller, 
 farther away, and yet he heard those following 
 voices calling to him, more faintly : 
 
 "Come back again — oh, come back again!" 
 
 And with that the negroes had broken into a 
 melody, and the ship moved on to the wild sweet 
 music. Way down upon de S'wanee Ribber, the 
 negroes sang, and the ship was at the turn of the 
 river. The stately walls of Roanoke House, the 
 green slope crowded with figures of his friends, the 
 
350 THE MARSHAL 
 
 sparkling water-front — the current had swept away 
 all of the picture and he could only hear that wail- 
 ing music of the negroes' voices, lower, more fit- 
 ful; and now it was gone. He had left Virginia; 
 he was on his way to friends. And for all his joy 
 of going, he was heavy-hearted for the leaving. 
 
 The weeks went slowly at sea, but after a while 
 he had landed, was in France, was at Vieques. He 
 had seen his mother, with her hair whitened by 
 those years of his prison life — a happy woman now, 
 full of business and responsibility, yet always with 
 a rapt look in her face as of one who lived in a deep 
 inner quiet. He had talked long talks with his pros- 
 perous father and slipped into his old place among 
 his brothers and sisters, utterly refusing to be made 
 a stranger or a great man. And over and over again 
 he had told the story of his capture and the story 
 of his escape and the story of the Count von Gers- 
 dorf 's great fancy for the song which they all knew : 
 
 "De tons cote's Von dit que je suis bete; 
 Cela se pent! Et cependant j'en ris." 
 
 Family, old friends who gathered to see the little 
 Francois Beaupre who had gone so far from his 
 village, all these hummed the song with him as he 
 came to that part of his tale, and then roared with 
 
ONCE MORE AT HOME 351 
 
 laughter as he told over again how he had wiitten 
 it on the note left for the governor, the night of his 
 escape. That was distinctly the best part of the 
 chronicle of Francois, to the taste of the Jura 
 peasattts. 
 
 At the castle the returned wanderer picked up no 
 less the thread dropped so suddenly seven years be- 
 fore. The general, to whom the boy seemed his 
 boy risen from the dead, would hardly let him from 
 his sight; Alixe kept him in a tingling atmosphere 
 of tenderness and mockery and sisterly devotion, 
 which thrilled him and chilled him and made him 
 blissful and wretched by turns. The puzzle of Alixe 
 was more unreadable than the puzzle of the sphinx 
 to the three men who loved her, to her father and 
 Francois and Pietro. The general and Francois 
 spoke of it guardedly, in few words, once in a long 
 time, but Pietro never spoke. Pietro was there 
 often, yet more often away in London, where the 
 exiled Mazzini, at the head of one wing of Italian 
 patriots, lived and conspired. And other men ap- 
 peared suddenly and disappeared at the chateau, 
 and held conferences with the general and Fran- 
 9ois in that large dim library where the little peas- 
 ant boy had sat with his thin ankles twisted about 
 the legs of his high chair, and copied the history 
 
352 [THE MARSHAL 
 
 of Napoleon. These men paid great attention now- 
 adays to the words of that peasant boy. 
 
 "As soon as you are a little stronger," they said, 
 "there is much work for you to do," and the general 
 would come in at that point with a growl like dis- 
 tant thunder. 
 
 "He is to rest," the general would order. "He is 
 to rest till he is well. He has done enough ; let the 
 boy alone, you others." 
 
 But the time came, six months after his return, 
 when Francois must be sent to visit the officers of 
 certain regiments thought to be secretly Bonapart- 
 ist; when only he, it was believed, could get into 
 touch with them and tell them enough and not too 
 much of the plans of the party, and find out where 
 they stood and how much one might count on them. 
 So, against the general's wish, Frangois went off 
 on a political mission. It proved more complicated 
 than had seemed probable ; he was gone a long time ; / 
 he had to travel and endure exhausting experiences 
 for which he was not yet fit. So that when he came 
 home to Vieques, two months later, he was white 
 and transparent and ill. And there were some of 
 the mysterious men at the chateau to meet him, de- 
 lighted, pitiless. Delighted with the work he had 
 done, with his daring and finesse and success, with- 
 
ONCE MORE AT HOME 353 
 
 out pity for his weakness, begging him to go at once 
 on another mission. The general was firm as to 
 that ; his boy should not be hounded ; he should stay 
 at home in the quiet old chateau and get well. But 
 the boy was restless ; a fever of enthusiasm was on 
 him and he wanted to do more and yet more for 
 the Prince's work. 
 
 Moreover it was about as much misery as joy to 
 be near Alixe. Every day he narrowly escaped tak- 
 ing her into his arms and telling her how he had 
 loved her and did love her and would love her al- 
 ways, right or wrong, reasonable or unreasonable. 
 It was almost more than he could do to resist that 
 temptation at times. And at times it seemed that 
 Alixe, with the swift lift of those long black lashes, 
 and the blue gleam of her eyes into his — ^it seemed 
 as if she were telling him not to resist any longer. 
 He did not know ; if he had been sure what sort of 
 love that glance meant — if he had been sure it was 
 not the sisterly sort — he was human — ^he could not, 
 perhaps, have resisted. But Alixe was a thousand 
 things in a minute ; no one could be so alluring, so 
 cold, so warm, so fascinating, so forbidding — all 
 at once. How could Frangois tell what was mask 
 and what reality in the proud, sensitive, merry, 
 brave personality which one saw? Yet for every 
 
354' THE MARSHAL 
 
 puzzling phase he loved her more and wanted her 
 more. He had much better go on diplomatic mis- 
 sions than stay and ride through Valley Delesmontes 
 on spring afternoons with the woman he loved and 
 might not have. 
 
 At this point two things happened : Pietro came 
 from London, and Frangois, on the point of leav- 
 ing for another secret errand, broke down and was 
 ill. He lay in his bed in his room at the farm- 
 house, the low upper chamber looking out — ^through 
 wide-open casement windows, their old leaded little 
 panes of glass glittering from every tmeven angle — 
 looking out at broad fields and bouquets of chestnut 
 trees, and far off, five miles away, at the high red 
 roofs of the chateau of Vieques. And gazing so, he 
 saw Pietro on old Capitaine, turn from the shady 
 avenue of the chestnuts and ride slowly to the 
 house. With that he heard his mother greeting 
 Pietro below in the great kitchen, then the two 
 voices — ^the deep one and the soft one — ^talking, 
 talking, a long time. What could his mother and 
 Pietro have to talk about so long? And then Pietro's 
 step was coming up the narrow stair, and he was 
 there, in the room. 
 
 "Francois," Pietro began in his direct fashion, 
 "I think you must go back to Virginia." 
 
ONCE MORE AT HOME 355 
 
 Francois regarded him with startled eyes, saying 
 nothing. There was a chill and an ache in his heart 
 at the thought of yet another parting. 
 
 Pietro went on. "I have a letter from Harry 
 Hampton. The place needs you; the people want 
 you; and Harry and Miss Hampton say they will 
 not be married unless you come to be best man at 
 the wedding." Frangois smiled. Pietro went on 
 again. "Moreover, boy, Franqois — ^you are not do- 
 ing well here. You are too useful ; they want to use 
 you constantly and you are ready ; but you are not 
 fit. You must get away for another year or two. 
 Then you will be well and perhaps by then the 
 Prince will have real work for you. And you must 
 have strength for that time. Your mother says I am 
 right." With that his mother stood in the doorway, 
 regarding him with her calm eyes, and nodded to 
 Pietro's words. So it came about that Francois 
 went back shortly to Virginia. 
 
 On the day before he went he sat in the garden 
 of the chateau with Alixe, on the stone seat by the 
 sun-dial where they had sat years before when the 
 general had seen him kiss the girl's hand, in that un- 
 brotherly way which had so surprised him. 
 
 "Alixe," said Frangois, "I am going to the end 
 of the world." 
 
3S6 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "Not for the first time," Alixe answered cheer- 
 fully. 
 
 "Perhaps for the last," Frangois threw back dra- 
 matically. It is hard to have one's best-beloved 
 discount one's tragedies. And Alixe laughed and 
 lifted a long stem of a spring flower which she 
 held in her hand, and brushed his forehead deli- 
 cately with the distant tip of it. 
 
 "Smooth out the wrinkles, do not frown ; do not 
 look solemn; you always come back, Monsieur the 
 Bad Penny; you will this time. Do not be melo- 
 dramatic, Francois." 
 
 Franqois, listening to these sane sentiments, was 
 hurt, and not at all inspired with cheerfulness. 
 "Alixe," he said — and knew that he should not say 
 it — "there is something I have wanted all my life — 
 all my life." 
 
 "Is there ?" inquired Alixe in commonplace tones. 
 "A horse, par exemple?" He caught her hand, dis^ 
 regarding her tone; his voice was full of passion 
 and pleading. *'Do not be heartless and cold to-day, 
 Ali:;ce, dear Alixe. I am going so far, and my very- 
 soul is torn with leaving you — all." 
 
 It takes no more than a syllable, an inflection at 
 times, to turn the course of a life. If Franqois had 
 left his sentence alone before that last little word; 
 
ONCE MORE AT HOME 357 
 
 if he had told the girl that his soul was torn with 
 leaving her, then it is hard to say what might have 
 happened. But — "you all" — he did not wish then 
 to have her think that it meant more to leave her 
 than to leave the others. Alixe readjusted the 
 guard which had almost slipped from her, and stood 
 again defensive. 
 
 "I won't be cruel, Franqois ; you know how we 
 — all — are broken-hearted to have you- go." 
 
 Fran9ois caught that fatal little word "all," re- 
 peated, and dimly saw its significance, and his own 
 responsibility. Alixe went on. 
 
 "I wonder if I do not know — ^what it is — ^that 
 you have wanted all your life." 
 
 Eagerly Francois caught at her words. "May I 
 tell you Alixe, Alixe?" 
 
 "No." Alixe spoke quickly. "No, let me guess. 
 It is — it is" — and Franqois, catching his breath, 
 tried to take the word from her, but she stopped 
 him. "No, I must — ^tell it. You have wished — all 
 your life" — Alixe was breathing rather fast — "that 
 — I should care for — Pietro." 
 
 A cold chill at hearing that thing said in that 
 voice seized him. Very still, his eyes down, he did 
 not speak. 
 
 "Is— is that it?" 
 
358 THE MARSHAL 
 
 There is an angel of perversity who possesses our 
 souls at times. He makes us say the unkind thing 
 when we wish not to; he tangles our feet so that we 
 fall and trip and hurt ourselves and our dearest — 
 and behold long after we know that all the same it 
 was an angel; that without that trouble we should 
 have gone forever down the easy wrong way. We 
 know that the perverse angel was sent to warn us 
 ofif the pleasant grass which was none of ours, and 
 by making things disagreeable at the psychological 
 moment,- save our souls alive for right things to 
 come. Some such crosswise heavenly messenger 
 gripped the mind of Alixe, and she said what she 
 hated herself for saying, and saw the quick result 
 in the downcast misery of poor Franqois' face. 
 And then the same cruel, wise angel turned his at- 
 tention to Francois. "If she thinks that, let her," 
 whispered the perverse one. "Let it go at that ; say 
 yes." 
 
 And Francois lifted mournful eyes and repeated, 
 "That you should love Pietro — yes — that is what I 
 have wished for all my life." 
 
CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 SUMMONED 
 
 ON the morning of May ninth, 1840, the sun 
 shone gaily in London. It filtered in intricate 
 patterns through the curtains which shaded the 
 upper windows of a house in Carlton Gardens, and 
 the breeze lifted the lace, and sunlight and breeze 
 together touched the bent head of a young man who 
 sat at a writing-table. A lock of hair had escaped 
 on his forehead and the air touched it, lifted it, as 
 if to say "Behold the Napoleonic curl! See how 
 he is like his uncle !" 
 
 But the pen ran busily, regardless of the garru- 
 lous breeze ; there was much to do for a hard-work- 
 ing prince who found time to be the hero of ball- 
 rooms, the center of a London season, and yet could 
 manipulate his agents throughout the garrisons of 
 France, and plan and execute a revolution. It was 
 the year when the body of Napoleon the First was 
 brought from St. Helena to Paris, and Louis Bona- 
 parte had resolved, in that steady mind which 
 359 
 
36o THE MARSHAL 
 
 never lost its grip on the reason of being of his ex- 
 istence, that with the ashes of the Emperor his 
 family should come back to France. For months 
 the network had been spread, was tightening, and 
 now the memory which held its friendships securely 
 always, took thought of a Frenchman living in Vir- 
 ginia. As soon as his letter was finished to his 
 father — the pen flew across the lines: 
 
 "The sword of Austerlitz must not be in an 
 enemy's hands," he wrote to his father. "It must 
 stay where it may again be lifted in the day of dan- 
 ger for the glory of France." His letters were apt 
 to be slightly oratorical ; it was moreover the fash- 
 ion of the day to write so. 
 
 He raised his head and stared into the street. It 
 was enough to decide his expedition for this sum- 
 mer that General Bertrand, well-meaning, and ill- 
 judging, had given to Louis Phillipe the arms of the 
 Emperor, to be placed in the Invalides. Every mem- 
 ber of the Bonaparte family was aroused, and to 
 the heir it was a trumpet call. He could hardly 
 wait to go to France, to reclaim that insulted sword. 
 He wrote on, finished the letter to the exiled king, 
 his father, a gloomy and lonely old man whom the 
 son did not forget through years spent away from 
 him. 
 
SUMMONED 361 
 
 Then he drew out a fresh sheet of paper, and 
 his faint smile gleamed ; for the thought of this ad- 
 herent in Virginia was pleasant to him. 
 
 "Chevalier Frangois Beaupfe," he headed the let- 
 ter, and began below, "My friend and Marshal of 
 Some Day." He considered a moment and wrote 
 quickly as if the words boiled to the pen. "The 
 baton awaits you. Come. I make an expedition 
 within three months, and I need you and your faith 
 in me. Our stars must shine together to give full 
 light. So, mon ami, join me here at the earliest,! 
 that the Emperor's words may come true. 
 
 "Louis Bonaparte." 
 
 A knock at the door and a man entered, a man 
 who seemed sure of his right in the room, who 
 moved about the Prince as if he were a bit of per- 
 sonal belonging, an extra arm or leg ready to slip 
 into place. The Prince looked up affectionately at 
 the valet de place who had been his mother's serv- 
 ant, who recalled boyish days in Switzerland; who 
 had managed escapes and disguises in the youthful 
 exciting times of the Italian insurrection, the dan- 
 gerous journey from Ancona ; who even now, under 
 Thelin, was getting together uniforms and equip- 
 ments, was casting buttons of the fortieth regiment 
 for the great event that was in the air. 
 
362 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "Fritz, here are letters to mail." He pushed them 
 toward the man; then, as the last slipped from 
 under his hand, he curved his fingers about it. "Be 
 careful of this one, Fritz," he said. "It ought to 
 bring me the brightness of my star." 
 
 Across the water, in Virginia, two years had 
 made few changes. On the June day when the 
 Prince's letter lay in the post-office of Norfolk the 
 last of the roses were showering pink and red over 
 the gardens in a sudden breeze. The leaves of the 
 trees that arched the road that led to Roanoke 
 House were sappy green, just lately fully spread, 
 and glorious with freshness. Their shadows, danc- 
 ing on the white pike, were sharp cut against the 
 brightness. And through the light-pierced cave of 
 shade a man traveled on horseback from one planta- 
 tion to another, a man who rode as a Virginian 
 rides, yet with a military air for all that. He patted 
 the beast's neck with a soothing word, and smiled 
 as Aquarelle plunged at the waving of a bough, at 
 a fox that ran across the road. But if an observer 
 had been there he might have seen that the man's 
 thought was not with horse or journey. Frangois 
 Beaupre, riding out to give a French lesson to Miss 
 
SUMMONED 363 
 
 Hampton at Roanoke House, as he had been doing 
 for four years, all unconscious as he was of the 
 letter waiting for him at the moment in Norfolk, 
 was thinking of the event to come to which that 
 letter called him. 
 
 Down the velvet that swept from house to river 
 at Roanoke House, by the brick wall which stretched 
 an arm against the waters — a dark arm jeweled 
 with green of vines and white of marble statues — 
 there was a rustic summer-house. It was furnished 
 with chairs and a rustic table, and here, on this 
 June day, the lady of the manor elected to study the 
 French language. The Chevalier Beaupre was taken 
 here on his arrival. Branches of trees whispered 
 and waved; afternoon shadows ran silently for- 
 ward and silently withdrew across the lawn; the 
 James River flowed by. 
 
 The two good friends bent together over the 
 rough table, and the James River, slipping past, sang 
 in a liquid undertone. And the time went fast in 
 the pleasant lights and shadows of the place, and 
 shortly it was two hours that the French lesson had 
 been going on. 
 
 "Lucy! Oh, Lucy!" A voice called from the 
 lawn, and in a moment more the colonel was upon 
 them. "Lucy," he began, "somebody must arrange 
 
364 THE MARSHAL 
 
 about the new harnesses ; my time is too valuable to 
 be taken up with details. Uncle Zack says they are 
 needed at once. It has been neglected. I do not un- 
 derstand why things are so neglected." 
 
 "I have seen to it, father. They will be ready in 
 a week," Lucy answered. 
 
 Then the colonel noticed Fran9ois. "Good day, 
 Chevalier," he spoke condescendingly. "Ah — ^by 
 the way" — ^he put a hand into one pocket and then 
 another of his linen coat. "They gave me a letter 
 for you. Chevalier, knowing that you would be at 
 Roanoke House to-day. Here it is" — and Lucy 
 saw a light leap into Frangois' eyes as they fell on 
 the English postmark. "About those harnesses, 
 Lucy. Why did you not ask my permission before 
 having them made? I do not understand how you 
 can take so much on yourself." 
 
 And Lucy spoke quietly again. "I did ask you, 
 father, but you did not see to it, and they were nec- 
 essary. So I did it." And then, "Chevalier, read 
 your letter. I see it is a foreign one." 
 
 "Will Mademoiselle pardon?" 
 
 At that moment an uneven step came down the 
 slope and Francois flashed a smile at Harry Hamp- 
 ton and retreated to the other side of the summer- 
 house with his letter; while the colonel, murmuring 
 
SUMMONED 365 
 
 complaints about harnesses, went strolling up the 
 shadowy, bird-haunted lawn. 
 
 Harry Hampton stood by his sweetheart with a 
 boyish air of proprietorship, radiant, as he had been 
 through these two years of his engagement. "I 
 have it," he announced. "Don't you want to see it?" 
 
 "Wait, Harry;" the girl glanced at Franqois. 
 But the lad caught her wrist. "Look," he said, and 
 opened his free hand and a plain gold ring glittered 
 from it. With a quick movement he slipped it over 
 the little third finger. "There," he said, "that will 
 be on to stay pretty soon, and then Uncle Henry 
 shall not badger you about harnesses. He has made 
 me wait two years because he needed you, but I 
 won't wait much longer, will I, Lucy? Next 
 Wednesday — that is the wedding-day, Lucy." 
 
 With that Franqois turned around. His face 
 shone with an excitement which could not escape 
 even preoccupied lovers. 
 
 "What is it, Chevalier? You have news — ^what 
 is it?" the girl cried. 
 
 For a moment he could not speak. Then : "Yes, 
 Mademoiselle, great news," he said. "The Prince 
 has sent for me. And I am well and fit to go. I 
 have lived for this time; yet I am grieved to leave 
 you and Harry, my two old friends." 
 
366 THE MARSHAL' 
 
 "But, Fratjgois, you can not go before Wednes- 
 day," Harry Hampton cried out. "We can not be 
 married without you." 
 
 And Francois considered. "No, not before 
 Wednesday," he agreed. 
 
 That last French lesson in the summer-house on 
 the banks of the smooth-flowing James River was on 
 a Saturday. On Monday the Chevalier Beaupre 
 rode over from Carnifax and asked to see Miss 
 Hampton. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Lucy," he said. "I have some- 
 thing to ask of you." 
 
 "I will do it," Lucy promised blithely, not waiting 
 for details. 
 
 Francois laughed. "You trust one. Madem- 
 oiselle Lucy — that is plain." Then his face became 
 serious. "Do you remember a talk we once had 
 together when I told you of my old playmate, 
 Alixe?" 
 
 The bride-to-be flushed furiously as she recalled 
 that talk. Then she nodded in a matter-of-fact 
 manner. "I remember very well," she said. "It 
 was when I threw myself at your head and you said 
 you didn't want me." 
 
 Frangois' shoulders and hands and eyes went up- 
 ward together into an eminently French gesture. 
 
SUMMONED 367 
 
 "What a horror!" he cried. "What an unspeakable 
 manner to recollect that talk ! How can you ? How 
 can you be so brutal to me ?" 
 
 Both of them, at that, burst into light-hearted 
 laughter. Lucy was grave suddenly. 
 
 "But you have something to ask me, Franqois. 
 You spoke of your — playmate — beautiful Alixe." 
 
 "It is only you whom I could ask to do this, Mad- 
 emoiselle Lucy. I have never told any one else 
 about her. Only you know of" — the words came 
 slowly — "of my love for her. She does not know 
 it. Alixe does not know. And I may be killed, one 
 sees, in this fight for the Prince. Quite easily. And 
 Alixe will not know. I do not like that. In fact 
 I can not bear it. So this is what I ask of you, dear 
 Mademoiselle." He brought out a letter and held 
 it to her. "If you hear that I am killed, will you 
 send it to Alixe?" 
 
 Lucy took the letter and turned it over doubt- 
 fully. "I do not like this sort of post-mortem com^ 
 mission, Frangois. I feel as if I were holding your 
 death-warrant." 
 
 "But it is not by a bit of writing I shall meet my 
 finish. Mademoiselle. I promise not to die one min- 
 ute sooner for that letter. It is only that it will 
 make me happy to know you will send it." 
 
368 THE MARSHAL 
 
 So Lucy, holding the letter gingerly, agreed. But 
 as Francois rose to go she stood by him a moment 
 and laid her hand on his coat sleeve. "Francois — I 
 want to tell you something." 
 
 "But yes, Mademoiselle — ^yes, Lucy." 
 
 "It is something wrong." 
 
 "Yes— Lucy." 
 
 "I am going to tell Harry I said it." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "This is it, then" — and Frangois, smiling, waited 
 and there was deep silence in the big, cool, quiet 
 drawing-room for as long as a minute. "This is 
 it, then. I don't know how I can be so unreasonable 
 — but I am. I love Harry — I am happy. But I am 
 quite — jealous of Alixe. And I think you are the 
 most wonderful person. I have ever known — much 
 more wonderful than Harry. If there had been no 
 Alixe ; if you had — liked me — I can imagine having 
 adored you. I do adore you, Frangois. Now, how 
 is all that compatible with my joy in marrying 
 Harry? I don't know how it is — ^but it is so. I 
 am a wicked sinful person — but it is so." 
 
 Franqois, bent over her two little hands, kissing 
 them more than once, shook with laughter. "I can 
 not guess the riddle," he said. "They say the heart 
 of a woman is an uncharted ocean. A man must 
 
SUMMONED 369 
 
 sail blindly over those waters and take the captain's 
 word for it, even if one seems to be sailing two 
 ways at once. For me, I am not very worldly-wise, 
 but I am not such a fool as to stop believing in my 
 friends because I can not understand them. You 
 are yourself, little Lucy, and Harry and I both 
 know better than to let anything you do alter our 
 faith in that beautiful thing which you are — ^an 
 American woman. Mademoiselle Lucy — you." 
 
 The next time Lucy Hampton saw Francois it 
 was when, white-robed and sweet in her enveloping 
 mist of veil she went up the chancel steps of the 
 little Virginia country church, and looking up met 
 a smile that was a benediction from the man whom 
 she had loved, who stood close now at the side of 
 her lover, her husband. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 THE prince's bright SHADOW 
 
 THERE are old people living in England to- 
 day who remember hearing their fathers and 
 mothers speak of a young Frenchman of uncommon 
 personality, constantly seen with Prince Louis Na- 
 poleon during the last days of his life in London in 
 the year 1840. Lady Constance Cecil nicknamed 
 this Frenchman "the Prince's bright shadow." 
 There seemed to be a closer tie than brotherhood 
 between them, and the tradition runs that the mys- 
 tical Prince had a superstition that his luck went 
 with him in the person of the Chevalier Beaupre. 
 
 The days of that summer month were full days 
 for the conspirators. On the surface, arranged to 
 be seen of the world and to throw the world off its 
 guard, was a steady round of gaiety ; at one brilliant 
 function after another the peasant Frangois shared 
 the honors and the lionizing of the Prince. Because 
 his visionary eyes looked through things of tinsel 
 to realities, the tinsel did not dazzle him. He gazed 
 
 370 
 
THE PRINCE'S BRIGHT SHADOW 371 
 
 at the butterflies of the world who fluttered about 
 him and saw people with kind hearts. And the 
 butterflies themselves were seldom so tawdry but 
 that they responded to the simplicity and loving 
 kindness which he held out to them. Few human 
 telegraph stations fail utterly to take the message 
 when the great universal wireless of reality sounds 
 the note. So that Francois, not suspecting it, gained 
 in a few weeks on many English hearts a hold 
 whose memory has not yet died away. 
 
 Beyond this evident social side of the London 
 life lay the hidden life of preparation for the event 
 to come — the attempt on Boulogne. And in this 
 both the Prince and his close follower and friend 
 really breathed and had their being. There was 
 constant excitement, constant labor, constant anx- 
 iety. Once, toward the end of the time, Francois 
 was sent on a flying trip to France, to make ar- 
 rangements unsafe to trust to writing, for the 
 Prince's affair. While on French soil he found time 
 for a two-hours' visit to Vieques and saw his mother 
 and Alixe and the general. Pietro, also, he saw, 
 Pietro, who was to have joined the Prince in Lon- 
 don by now, and who had instead incapacitated him- 
 self for fighting for months to come. A village 
 child had run suddenly out under his horse's feet. 
 
IJT. THE MARSHAL 
 
 and Pietro, saying the child, had thrown the horse 
 and had been badly hurt. So he lay fretting his 
 heart out silently at the castle, and when Francois 
 stood by his bed, brilliant and tense as an arrow on 
 'its way, Pietro took his friend's hand in both his 
 own and gripped it with all his force and then turned 
 his face to the wall without a word. It was always 
 Frangois who was the hero. 
 
 So that the Prince's secretary sped back to Eng- 
 land, sore in heart to miss the friend of his lifetime 
 at his side in the good fight to come, yet too whole- 
 heartedly ready for the work to be anything but an 
 eager sword in the Prince's hand. The day for 
 which he had longed all his life was at hand. The 
 general had sent him off to it with a rough soldierly 
 blessing; Alixe had kissed him sisterly; his mother 
 had stood in the farm-house door, shielding with 
 her hand those calm saint-like eyes, and he saw her 
 lips move as he looked back and knew what she 
 said as she watched him ride away to fight for 
 Prince Louis. To fight for the Prince ! Who could 
 tell if ever he might ride back down that familiar 
 road under the chestnuts? 
 
 But it was all as it should be; he was entirely 
 happy. He had asked three wishes of the good 
 fairies, as he had said long ago; that the Prince 
 
THE PRINCE'S BRIGHT SHADOW 373 
 
 should be Emperor — ^thai": he might become "a Mar- 
 shal of France under another Bonaparte" — ^that 
 Alixe should love him. The first two he believed 
 about to be realized. The last ? It was not now the 
 time to think of that. Alixe had kissed him good- 
 by. That would more than do till the fight was over. 
 So he sped back to London, missing Pietro, but 
 hopeful and buoyant. And in London there was a 
 letter for him from Virginia. 
 
 "Dear Francois," Lucy began. "To think that 
 the first letter sent to you by Harry's wife should 
 be to tell you that she has betrayed your trust in 
 her. I am distressed beyond words, for I have 
 made a mistake which may mean distress to you. 
 You remember the letter to Alixe which you trusted 
 to me to send her in case anything should happen to 
 you? I had it in my hand the week after my wed- 
 ding when I had gone up-stairs to get other letters 
 for Europe which my father had commanded me to 
 send by the next packet. And in some stupid un- 
 explainable way I slipped yours — your precious let- 
 ter — among them in place of one to my father's 
 agents in London, and I hurried down and gave the 
 parcel to Sambo, who was waiting to ride to Nor- 
 folk with them. And then Harry and I went away 
 on a visit to Martin's Brandon for three days, and 
 it was only when I came back that I discovered the 
 
374 THE MARSHAL 
 
 dreadful mistake I had made. Can you ever for- 
 give me? Harry and I thought over every possi- 
 biHty of stopping it, but there seemed to be no 
 chance. Are you very angry with me, dear friend 
 of Harry's and of mine?" 
 
 The letter went on with reproaches and regrets 
 and finally slipped into a tale of a new happy life 
 which Francois had made possible for the two. He 
 read it over several times. His letter to Alixe, 
 which should have been sent only after his death, 
 had gone to her. What then? She would know 
 that he loved her; that he had loved her always; 
 that he would love her forever ; that the one wish of 
 his life had been that she should love himself — not 
 Pietro. He had said that in the letter; that was all. 
 He was glad that she should know, though he would 
 never have told her in life. It was done and he 
 would find out now if Pietro indeed cared for her, 
 if she cared for Pietro. And if not, then one had 
 waited long enough; then at last — the joy of the 
 thought choked him. Through the years of renun- 
 ciation that hope had not died. And now his letter 
 had gone and the consequences must follow — after 
 the fight. Everything must go till after the fight. 
 Alixe had not had the letter before he saw her, this - 
 last time in Vieques; he was sure of that as he 
 
THE PRINCE'S BRIGHT SHADOW 375 
 
 thought back and remembered each word, each look 
 of those short hours. But she would have it soon; 
 in fact she had it now likely; his heart beat fast — 
 she knew now that he loved her. 
 
 A knock came at the door of the room in the 
 London lodging where he sat with Lucy Hampton's 
 letter before him. Fritz Rickenbach stood there; 
 his Highness would like to see the Chevalier. All 
 personal thoughts were locked swiftly into the 
 drawer with Lucy's letter and "the Prince's bright 
 shadow" went to the Prince. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 THE THIRD WISH 
 
 ON the day when Francois in London read that 
 letter of Lucy Hampton's which had awaited 
 his return from France, a letter from Lucy Hamp- 
 ton reached Alixe at the chateau of Vieques. She 
 carried it to Pietro's room where he sat in a deep 
 chair at a window which looked over Delesmontes 
 Valley and the racing Cheulte River, and the village 
 strung on the shores. His elbow on the stone 
 window-sill, his chin in his hand, he stared at the 
 familiar picture. 
 
 Alixe, coming in without knocking at the open 
 door, stepped across and stood by him, and he did 
 not yet lift his head, his listless eyes did not yet 
 shift their gaze from the broad landscape. Alixe, 
 looking down at the black head with its short curls 
 set in thick locks — after the manner of the curls of 
 Praxiteles' Hermes — was startled to see many 
 bright lines of gray through the dark mass. Was 
 everybody getting old? Francois with the broad 
 
 376 
 
THE THIRD WISH 377 
 
 band of white in his hair — and now Pietro — big 
 little Pietro, who had come to them and learned to 
 ride Coq and played with them. Was Pietro get- 
 ting old and gray? 
 
 By one of the sudden impulses characteristic of 
 her, her hand flew out and rested on the curled head 
 as if to protect it, motherly, from the whitening of 
 time. 
 
 And Pietro turned slowly and looked up at her 
 with eyes full of hopelessness and adoration. Such 
 a look he had never before given her; such a look 
 no one could mistake except a woman who would 
 not let herself understand. 
 
 "It is good to be up and at the window, isn't it ?" 
 Alixe spoke cheerfully, and her hand left his head 
 and she went on in a gay disengaged tone. "You 
 will be down-stairs in two or three days now, and 
 then it is only a jump to being out and about, and 
 then — ^then in a minute you will be well again." 
 
 "Oh, yes," Pietro answered without animation. 
 "It will not be long before I am well." 
 
 "Look, Pietro;" Alixe held out the paper in. her 
 hand. "Such a queer letter ! From Virginia. From 
 the little Lucy Hampton of whom Franqois talks. 
 I don't understand it. Will you let me read it to 
 you?" 
 
378 THE MARSHAL 
 
 "Surely," said Pietro, and waited with his un- 
 smiling eyes on her face. 
 
 "My dear Mademoiselle," Alixe read. "I am 
 writing to beg your forgiveness, as I have begged 
 that of the Chevalier Beaupre, for the very great 
 fault I have committed. The Chevalier trusted to 
 me a letter for you which was to have been sent you 
 only in case of a certain event; by a carelessness 
 which, unmeant as it was, I shall never forgive my- 
 self, I gave it with other letters to our negro Sambo 
 to be posted at once. By now it may have reached 
 you. I can not tell if I have made trouble or not, 
 but in any case, I can not rest without saying to you 
 '. — as well as to the Chevalier — ^how sorry I am. If 
 you can find it in your heart to forgive me, please 
 do so, dear Mademoiselle. That I should have 
 made trouble for one as dear to the Chevalier as you 
 are is a deep grief to me. He has talked to me of 
 you. With a very earnest prayer again for your 
 forgiveness I am. Mademoiselle, yours faithfully 
 and sincerely — Lucy Hampton Hampton." 
 
 Pietro looked bewildered. "What is it about?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "I wonder," and Alixe laughed and frowned at 
 the paper in her hand. "It seems Franqois wrote 
 me a letter and left it with little Mistress Hamptqn 
 
THE THIRD WISH 379 
 
 to be sent 'in case of a certain event.' What event? 
 What a strange thing for Frangois to do! And 
 then he came to us here and said nothing of mys- 
 terious letters left cooking in Virginia. I can not 
 make it out, Pietro — can you?" 
 
 "Not I," said Pietro. 
 
 "The letter of Francois has not come; that is cer- 
 tain; I wonder if the negro Sambo lost it." 
 
 "Probably," Pietro said. "It should have come 
 before this one, otherwise." 
 
 "It is a riddle," Alixe decided, "and I never guess 
 them." Then, dropping into a seat on the wide 
 window-sill, "Pietro — ^you are letting yourself be 
 depressed." 
 
 The gray eyes met hers with something that 
 seemed a wall of reserve in their steady glance. "I 
 think possibly I miss having no exercise," he said. 
 "I will feel more natural when I can get about." 
 
 Alixe looked at him. "You are eating your heart 
 out to be with Franqois," she said, and laid her 
 hand on his. 
 
 Pietro started as if the light touch had shaken 
 him; then slowly his large fingers twisted lightly 
 around the small ones, and he turned his face again, 
 holding her hand so, to the window and the view of 
 the valley and the river and the village. A moment 
 
38o THE MARSHAL 
 
 they sat so, the girl's hand loose in the hollow of the 
 man's ; a slow red crept into Alixe's face ; there was 
 confusion in her brain. She had laid her hand on 
 that of her brother; her brother had taken it in his 
 — and behold, by a witchcraft it was all changed. 
 This delicate big grasp that held her was not broth- 
 erly; through all her veins suddenly she knew that; 
 the flush shot up to her eyes, to her forehead, and 
 she tried, with an attempt at an every-day manner, 
 to draw her hand away. But Pietro, his set pale 
 face toward the window, his eyes gazing out, held 
 her hand. With that the world had reeled and was 
 whirling pas.t her. Pietro had caught both her 
 hands in a tight grip and had drawn them against 
 him, was holding them there, was looking at her 
 with a face which not even she, this time, might 
 mistake. 
 
 "Alixe," he said, "I know you don't care for me. 
 I know you love Francois. I did not mean ever to 
 speak, but when you put your hand on mine — " 
 
 He held her palms together and parted the palms 
 and kissed the finger-tips, first of one and then of 
 the other, as if he kissed something holy. 
 
 "I shall never speak again, but this once I will. 
 I always loved you — one must. I knew always that 
 a slow silent person like me would have no chance 
 
THE THIRD WISH 381 
 
 against a fellow like Franqois. So I have kept still, 
 and it was hard. It won't be so hard now that you 
 know. Are you angry, Alixe?" 
 
 Alixe, with her head bent so that Pietro did not 
 see her face, with her head bending lower — lower, 
 suddenly was on her knees by the chair and her face 
 was on Pietro's arm. 
 
 "Alixe," he whispered, "what is it— what have 
 I done?" 
 
 But the brown waves of hair with the blue ribbon 
 tied around them lay motionless on his arm. And 
 suddenly a thought shook him. 
 
 "It can not be !" he gasped. 
 
 And Alixe lifted her face, and the exaggerated 
 black lashes lifted, and the blue glance lifted and 
 rested on Pietro's black hair bent down where the 
 light shone on the silver lines through it. Up flashed 
 her hand impulsively, gently — as Alixe did things, 
 and touched the thick lock with an infinitely delicate 
 caress. "Your hair — is all turning gray," she whis- 
 pered in two quick breaths, and at that, in some oc- 
 cult fashion Pietro knew. 
 
 It makes little diflference of what wood the match 
 is made which sets fire to the mine ; it makes little 
 difference what words are spoken when that tale is 
 telling. Anything says it. At a certain moment a 
 
382 THE MARSHAL 
 
 man might remark that grass was green, and a 
 woman might answer that it appeared pink to her — 
 and it would be love-making. The voice and the 
 look and the very atmosphere about would do the 
 work; words are a detail. So does the soul out-fly 
 its slow vehicle of speech when the rushing mighty 
 wind of such a feeling lifts and speeds it. Pietro 
 knew ; for all his self-distrust he drew her into his 
 arms and held her without one shadow of doubt 
 that she loved him and belonged to him. 
 
 For moments they had no need of that makeshift, 
 language; the great house was very quiet, and one 
 heard the horses stamping in the paved courtyard 
 and the grooms singing, and yet one did not hear it. 
 Distant sounds came from the village, but one only 
 knew that long after, in remembering that morning. 
 All they knew was that the ghost of a lifelong affec- 
 tion of brother and sister stood before them, 
 changed by a miracle to a shining angel into whose 
 face, for these first moments, they dared not look. 
 Then slowly, exquisitely, courage came and, hand 
 close in hand, they looked at each other astonished, 
 glad. It was Pietro and Alixe still, the ancient play- 
 fellows, the childhood friends — all the dear famil- 
 iarity was there yet, but no longer were they brother 
 
THE THIRD WISH 383 
 
 and sister. And then, after a while they began to 
 compare notes of things hidden. 
 
 "When did you begin — to like me — this way, 
 Pietro?" 
 
 "I don't know," answered Pietro stupidly. "Does 
 it make any difference ?" 
 
 "A great deal," Alixe insisted. "It's important. 
 It's historical." 
 
 "But this isn't history," said Pietro. 
 
 Alixe, however, returned to the charge. "Last 
 year?" 
 
 "Last year — ^what ?" Pietro asked ; he had already 
 forgotten the question. "Oh — ^that I began to — 
 Mon Dieu — no. Last year! Why, I think it was 
 the day I came and saw you riding Coq." 
 
 "Oh, Pietro — if you will talk only nonsense!" 
 Alixe's voice was disappointed. "But why, then, 
 didn't you ever say so before this? We are both 
 a thousand years old now. If you — loved me" — ■ 
 she spoke the word in a lower voice — "why, then, 
 were you as quiet as a mouse about it all these 
 years?" 
 
 "I thought you cared for Frangois," Pietro said 
 simply. And added, "Didn't you?" 
 
 Alixe considered. "I don't — think — I ever did. 
 
384 THE MARSHAL 
 
 Pietro. Not really. I thought I did perhaps. He 
 dazzled me — Fran9ois — with his way of doing all 
 sorts of things brilliantly, and that wonderful some- 
 thing about him which makes everybody love him. 
 He believed in his star; there was around him the 
 romance of the Emperor's prophecy and the romance 
 of the career which is, we believe, about to begin 
 now ; there was always a glamour about Franqois." 
 
 "Yes," Pietro agreed. "The glamour of his cour- 
 age, Alixe, of loyalty and unselfishness; the qual- 
 ities which make what people call his charm. Fran- 
 cois is unlike the rest of the world, I believe, Alixe." 
 
 Pietro stopped, then went on with an unaccus- 
 tomed eloquence. 
 
 "Whatever may be the fibers from which souls 
 are woven, those of Frangois were so adjusted from 
 his birth that things hard to most of us are easy to 
 him. It has never been an effort for Francois to 
 love mankind and to believe the best of every one. 
 Also, things unreal to most are his realities. He 
 lives very close to that line over which is inspiration 
 or madness — men call it either, according as it suc- 
 ceeds or fails in this world. There are questions 
 yet to be understood, I believe, which will account 
 for Franqois' trick of vision-seeing. Perhaps a 
 hundred years from now, perhaps five hundred, 
 
THE THIRD WISH 385 
 
 people will know things about the human mind 
 which may make clear that strange gift of his. It 
 may be that there are powers of the mind not now 
 understood. There may be a world of mental possi- 
 bility beneath consciousness." 
 
 Pietro talked on, the silent Pietro, as if deliver- 
 ing a lecture. He had read much and thought 
 much; it was seldom he spoke of the speculations 
 which often filled his scholarly mind; to-day it 
 seemed easy to talk of everything. Joy had set 
 wide all the doors of his being. Alixe opened her 
 eyes in astonishment. 
 
 "Pietro! You are — talking like a book! But it 
 is true ; something of that sort has come to me, too 
 — which proves it to be true. I have felt always 
 that Frangois had notes in him which are not on 
 our pianos." Pietro smiled, looking at her. 
 
 "And yet, Alixe, you do not love Franqois, with 
 all these gifts and all his power over hearts — ^but 
 only commonplace me?" 
 
 Alixe straightened against his arm. "Monsieur 
 the Marquis Zappi, the gentleman I — care for, is 
 not commonplace. I thank you not to say it," she 
 shot at him, and then, melting to a sudden in- 
 tensity, she put a hand on each side of his dark face 
 and spoke earnestly. "Pietro, dear, listen. I believe 
 
386 THE MARSHAL 
 
 I always cared for you. When I was little it hurt 
 me to have Francois forever the one to do the dar- 
 ing things. Do you remember how I used to scold 
 at you because you would not fight him ?" Pietro , 
 smiled again. "Then he was captain of the school 
 and you only a private, and I cried about that when 
 I was alone at night. And when you went off to 
 Italy so quietly, with never a word said about the 
 danger, I did not know that you were doing a fine 
 deed — I thought it a commonplace that you should 
 go back to your country, till Franqois opened my 
 eyes." 
 
 "Franqois?" Pietro asked. 
 
 "Yes. The day before he went to join you we 
 were riding together and he told me what it meant 
 to be a patriot in Italy under the Austrians. That 
 day I realized how unbearable it would be if any- 
 thing happened to you. But I thought I cared for 
 Francois; if he had spoken that day I should have 
 told him that I cared for him. But he did not ; he 
 went — and was in prison five years." 
 
 "And all that time I believed you loved him, and 
 were mourning for him," Pietro said gently. 
 
 "I half believed it too," Alixe answered. "Yet 
 all the time I was jealous for you, Pietro, for it 
 was still Frangois who was the hero — not you. 
 
THE THIRD WISH 387 
 
 Then when there came a question of his rescue I 
 was mad with the desire to have you do it — and 
 you did it." 
 
 "It was still Fran9ois who was the hero," Pietro 
 said. "Only the commonplace things fell to me, as 
 is fitting." 
 
 "No," Alixe cried, "I know better now. Was it 
 commonplace the other day when- you saved little 
 Antoinette Tremblay and lamed yourself for — 
 months, maybe? That was enough for a lifetime, 
 Pietro. And you have never failed any one — not 
 once. As Francois said, you are 'a heart of gold, a 
 wall of rock'." 
 
 Her voice dropped. She laid her hand against 
 his shoulder and spoke, in a quick cautious way. 
 
 "But all that is immaterial. I just love you — ^ 
 that's the point." A moment later she spoke again. 
 "I want to finish telling you — and then we need 
 never speak of it again. I did think you were — 
 commonplace. And yet I knew in my heart you 
 were not, for I resented your seeming so. So I urged 
 you into danger. I wanted you to be a hero. I had 
 that echo of a schoolgirl's romance about Fran- 
 cois in my mind, and I clung, all along, to the idea 
 that I loved him and that perhaps he secretly loved 
 me but would not say it because he was poor and a 
 
388 THE MARSHAL 
 
 peasant; that he was waiting till his future was 
 made. Then, one day, only the other day, he told 
 me that he had asked three wishes of life — 'of the 
 good fairies' he said. One was to make Prince 
 i Louis Emperor, one was to be Marshal of France ; 
 the third — " she stopped. 
 
 "What?" Pietro demanded, his mouth a bit rigid. 
 
 Alixe flushed and smiled and took Pietro's big 
 hand and covered her eyes with it. "That I should — 
 love you. Monsieur. He said he had wished that 
 all his life." 
 
 "May heaven grant him his wish," said Pietro 
 fervently, and then, reflecting, "It seems a strange 
 wish for Francois. You are sure, Alixe?" 
 
 "Yes, he said so," Alixe insisted. "Our dear 
 Francois," she went on softly, and the blue intensity 
 of her eyes grew misty. "Dear Fran9ois," she re- 
 peated, "it is only he who could have had those 
 three wishes. The single one that was for himself 
 was not because he cared for it himself, but because 
 it was the Emperor's prophecy." 
 
 "I always thought," Pietro spoke slowly, "that 
 it was not indeed for himself that he wished to be 
 a Marshal some day, but because it might make him, 
 in a manner, your equal. It was for you." 
 
 "For me!" Alixe was astonished. "I never 
 
THE THIRD WISH 389 
 
 thought of that. I think you thought of it, Pietro, 
 only because you — cared for me — and thought 
 Franqois must care also." 
 
 "Yes, I thought he cared," Pietro considered. "I 
 can not believe otherwise yet." 
 
 "You may believe it." Alixe was firm. "For he 
 said that what he had wished always was that I 
 should — love you. I did it mostly to please Fran- 
 cois," she added serenely. 
 
 And Pietro's response to that was apt, but not to 
 be given here. The minds of these two happy lovers 
 were full of that third who had been so close always, 
 to each of them. 
 
 "Pietro," Alixe spoke earnestly, coming back to 
 the same subject, "you know that I love Francois — 
 of course. But you do not know in what way. I 
 love him as if he were one of the saints — but also 
 as if he were a helpless little child. Yet not — Pietro 
 —as if he were — the man I love. I would give my 
 life for him in a rush of delight, if he needed it. 
 But I know now, whatever were my vague dreams 
 in past years, that it is not in Frangois to care for 
 a woman as a human man. Somehow, among all 
 his wonderful qualities that one thing was left out. 
 He never could have cared for me so that — the 
 touch of my hand counted, or — or so that all other 
 
390 THE MARSHAL 
 
 women should seem^— different. I think, indeed, 
 that if some dear girl should have loved him he 
 might easily have married her out of pure friend- 
 ship and gentleness, not knowing what the real 
 love of a man to a woman is like. That is impos- 
 sible to him." 
 
 "I am not so sure," said Pietro, and shook his 
 head. 
 
 "You know I am not abusing our Frangois," 
 Alixe protested. "Why, Pietro, my father believes, 
 and I believe, that if affairs should so happen that he 
 has his opportunity he may yet be one of the great 
 characters in history. My father says he is made up 
 of inspirations, illuminations — and limitations." 
 
 "Yes," said Pietro thoughtfully. "He has the 
 faults of brilliancy and fearlessness. He judges too 
 rapidly. If he were afraid ever — if he saw the 
 other side of a question ever, his judgment would 
 be safer. It may well happen that he will be one of 
 the great men of Europe; it may also happen that 
 by some single act of mismanagement he will throw 
 away his career — or his life. God keep him safe !" 
 Pietro said simply. 
 
 And Alixe echoed it— "God keep him safe !" And 
 then, "I am going to write him, Pietro — about us. 
 My father knows where to reach him at Boulogne. 
 
THE THIRD WISH 391 
 
 I am going to say just a word — that what he has 
 wished for all his life is true. It will get to him the 
 night before the battle." 
 
 "Are you sure you are right, Alixe?" Pietro 
 asked doubtfully. 
 
 "Sure," said Alixe buoyantly. 
 
 "Give him my love, then," said Pietro. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE 
 
 OUT in the dark, in the harbor of Boulogne, the 
 ship Edinburgh Castle lay rocking in the 
 wind. Prince Louis Bonaparte, who had chartered 
 her, and the handful of his followers who had sailed 
 with him on her from England had disembarked 
 quietly at twilight, and in small companies had suc- 
 ceeded in entering the town and the quarters of the 
 officers who were, in France, the nucleus and the 
 hope of their attempt. In the rooms of Lieutenant 
 Aladenize, the host of the Prince, a short council 
 had been held to go over once more the plans which 
 had been discussed and settled by letter for weeks 
 X already. The work was carefully arranged ; there 
 Swas almost nothing to be changed, and the little 
 company of men who were trying so large a fate, 
 scattered, with grave faces, with quiet good nights to 
 the Prince who might to-morrow night be their Em- 
 peror, to the Prince for whose sake they might to- 
 morrow night be any or all ruined men or dead men. 
 
 392 
 
THE NIGHT BEFORE 393 
 
 Charles Thelin, his valet of many years, unpacked 
 his Highness' belongings busily in Lieutenant Alad- 
 enize's bedroom; the Prince heard — subconsciously 
 attentive to small things — as the servant moved 
 about, yet he stood lost in his thoughts, as the last of- 
 ficer left him. One hand lay on a table littered with 
 papers of the expedition; the gray dull eyes were 
 fixed yet on the door that had shut out his friends. 
 There was no hint of wavering in the poised mind; 
 there was no shadow of doubt of his destiny, yet 
 the man was very human, and to-night great lone- 
 liness seized him. These good fellows who were 
 risking their lives and their fortunes for him were 
 devoted to him without doubt, yet what did it 
 amount to? That they hoped for advancement 
 through him, it would be absurd to resent ; one and 
 all they believed that he would be Emperor; they 
 knew that he would be grateful ; their fortunes were 
 made if to-morrow should succeed. They had much 
 friendliness for him — he realized that under his 
 father's taciturn manner he had his mother's gift 
 of winning hearts and that his followers loved him 
 — in a way. But what did it amount to — ^love of 
 followers for a Prince? He longed to-night for 
 -something more personal, and suddenly, with a 
 pang, he knew what he wanted — like the homesick 
 
394 THE MARSHAL 
 
 lad who had cried himself to sleep at the Tuilleries 
 twenty-five years before, he wanted his mother. 
 
 The tie between Hortense and this youngest and 
 dearest son had been close, and this was the first 
 great event of his eventful life in which her clear 
 mind and daring spirit had not played its part. Be- 
 fore his attempt on Strasburg, now three years ago, 
 he had prepared two letters, one in case of success, 
 one of failure, to be sent off post-haste to the Queen, 
 ill at Arenenberg ; to-night there was no one to write 
 to, no one to whom his success or failure meant 
 more than to himself. All that warmth and eager 
 hopefulness which had outlasted danger and exile 
 and illness and age, had gone from earth, and the 
 body of Hortense lay in the little church of Revil, 
 near Malmaison. The Emperor-to-be dropped into 
 a chair, his head fell and his outstretched arms 
 rustled amid the plans of fortifications, and the 
 writing under his cheek was wet. The weakness 
 was only for a moment, and quietly, as he did every- 
 thing, the Prince pulled himself together. He sat 
 erect and listened. Thelin was brushing clothes 
 with energy in the bedroom, and through another 
 door there came a light sound of a paper turned, of 
 a gay song sung softly. And a glow suddenly 
 warmed the Prince's heart ; here was some one who 
 
THE NIGHT BEFORE 395 
 
 had known his mother, who had been, indeed, for a 
 few days her son ; here was some one who cared for 
 him, he believed it, with a half-constiming flame of 
 devotion. Since the man's arrival from Virginia 
 six weeks before, to have him near himself had been 
 a pleasure to Louis Bonaparte ; he seemed to bring 
 back the freshness of his early days, of the young 
 confidence when his star shone for him, distant per- 
 haps, but undimmec^ by the black clouds which 
 drove now across it. He was a bit superstitious 
 about Franqois as well, with an idea, which he spoke 
 to no one, that a pivotal interest of his career rested 
 in the modest figure. 
 
 "Have a care of that young man, my Prince," 
 had said General Montholon, the old soldier. "Do 
 not trust him too far." 
 
 The Prince's faint smile gleamed. "I would trust 
 the empire to his loyal heart. General." 
 
 "But yes," answered the general swiftly, "to his 
 heart, but not to his head. He is of the dreamers — 
 a visionary. He might ruin many months' work 
 with one good intention." And the Prince reflected, 
 but did not agree. 
 
 He rose, this night in Boulogne, as the paper rus- 
 tled and the little French provincial chanson 
 sounded from the room where Franqois Beaupre, 
 
396 THE MARSHAL 
 
 now his secretary, had been installed, and stepped 
 to the closed door. 
 
 "De tous cote's I' on que je suis bete." 
 
 Frangois sang softly. The Prince smiled. He 
 knew the song and its place in Francois' history. 
 As he opened the door the singing stopped; the 
 young man sprang respectfully to his feet, a letter 
 grasped in his hand, and stood waiting. 
 
 "Sire!" he said. 
 
 Prince Louis flung out his hand with a gesture of 
 impulsiveness strange to his controlled manner, yet 
 not out of drawing to those who knew him well. 
 "Ah, Francois," he cried. "Let the titles go for to- 
 night. Say, 'Louis', as on that day when we first 
 saw each other; when the four children played to- 
 gether in the old chateau ruins. I have a great de- ^ 
 sire to hear some one who loves me speak my name, 
 simply as friend to friend. With all those good fel- 
 lows" — and he tossed a wave of the hand to the 
 door by which the conspirators had left him — "with 
 my officers, it is necessary to keep up formality — I 
 realize it. But you, my inspired peasant, are differ- 
 ent. You stand in no class; you would guard my 
 dignity more quickly than I, myself. I can trust it 
 to you. The memory of my mother's voice calling 
 me 'Louis' is in your heart; call me so, then, to- 
 
THE NIGHT BEFORE 397 
 
 night, my friend, as if we were indeed tHe brothers 
 we once had to be for five days." And Frangois 
 smiled his radiant exquisite smile and answered 
 quietly. "But yes, my brother — Louis." And went 
 on, "I believe I shall not sleep to-night, Louis. I 
 believe I am too happy to sleep." 
 
 As one reads a novel for relaxation in the strain 
 of a critical business affair, Pririce Louis caught at 
 the distraction of this side issue. The next morning 
 was planned to the last detail ; there was nothing to 
 do till daylight, yet he could not sleep at present. 
 Here was a romance of some sort. He sank back 
 on the cushions of the couch of Lieutenant Aladen- 
 ize's smoking room and put his feet up luxuriously, 
 and slowly lighted a cigar of Havana. 
 
 "Tell me," he ordered, and the gentleness of ap- 
 peal was in the order. 
 
 "Sire" — the young man began — and corrected 
 himself. "Louis," he said. The Prince smiled 
 dimly. "Since our landing I have known that a 
 wonderful thing has happened to me. It is" — he 
 spoke lower — "it is the love of the woman who isi 
 to me the only one in the world." 
 
 Prince Louis, extended on the couch smoking, a 
 picture of expressionless inattention, missing not 
 an inflection, cast his mind back rapidly many years. 
 
398 THE MARSHAL 
 
 There, a vague memory now, he found a picture of 
 a spirited, white-clad, little girl framed in the ruins 
 of the old castle; of a boy stepping to her side to 
 champion her sudden embarrassment. The heavy- 
 lidded eyes turned a kindly glance on the erect fig- 
 ure in its new uniform of an officer of the fortieth. 
 
 "I congratulate you, mon ami" he said gently. 
 "Is it by any chance the delightful little Mademoi- 
 selle Alixe of the old chateau ?" 
 
 Beaupre turned scarlet. He was a marvelous 
 man, this Prince Louis. How had he guessed? 
 "She loves me — I have here a letter in which she 
 tells me that she loves me. Will his Highness read 
 it?" With an impetuous step forward he held the 
 paper toward Louis Napoleon. 
 
 "I thank you," the Prince said gravely. He read : 
 
 "Francois, what you have wished all your life is 
 true. The good fairies have granted one of your 
 wishes before the battle. That they will give you 
 the other two on the day of the battle is the belief 
 of your Alixe." 
 
 And below was written hurriedly, "Pietro sends 
 his love." 
 The Prince gave back the letter with a respectful 
 
THE NIGHT BEFORE 399 
 
 hand ; then looked at Frangois inquiringly. " 'What 
 you have wished all your life,' mon ami?" Fran- 
 cois laughed happily. "One must explain, if it will 
 not tire his Highness." And he told, in a few 
 words, of that day when his self-restraint had given 
 way and how, when his guard was down and he was 
 on the point of telling his lifelong secret love, some 
 spirit of perversity — but Frangois did not know it 
 was an angel — had caught Alixe, and she had ac- 
 cused him of wishing always that she might love 
 Pietro. And how, meshed in that same net of hurt 
 recklessness, he had ansAyered in her own manner — 
 "Yes," he had said, "it was that which had been the 
 wish of his life — that Alixe might love Pietro!" 
 And Franqois laughed gaily, telling the simple en- 
 tanglement to the Prince, the night before the bat- 
 tle. "One sees how she is quick and clear-sighted, 
 my Alixe," he said. "For she knew well even then 
 it was not that I wished." He stopped, for in the 
 quiet contained look of the listener an intangible 
 something struck a chill to his delicately-poised sen- 
 sitiveness. "What is it, Louis ?" he cried out. "You 
 do not think I mistake her — mistake — Alixe !" 
 
 Prince Louis saw the dawning of consternation. 
 Rapidly he considered. Was it well to take away a 
 man's happiness and courage just before a fight? 
 
400 THE MARSHAL' 
 
 He remembered some words of Francois spoken 
 three years before, words whose dramatic bareness 
 had struck him. "When a knight of the old time 
 went into battle," the young man had said, "he wore 
 on his helmet the badge of his lady, and the thought 
 of her in his heart. A man fights better so." Very 
 well. This blind knight should have his letter, with 
 the meaning he had read into it, for his lady's badge, 
 and he should fight to-morrow with the thought of 
 her in his heart. The letter suggested another mean- 
 ing to sophisticated Louis Bonaparte, but there is no 
 need to hasten the feet of unhappiness. The reso- 
 nant French voice spoke at last in an unused accent 
 of cordiality and the Prince lied, with ungrudging 
 graciousness. 
 
 "Mistaken, my Frangois! Not at all. The little 
 billet-doux breathes love for you in each line — ^there 
 is no question! But, mon ami, you have not fin- 
 ished your story." So Francois explained about 
 the letter left with Lucy Hampton and its prema- 
 ture sending. "That has reached her now — she 
 knows now that I love her, she knows what has 
 really been my lifelong wish — she has hurried this," 
 and his hand crushed his note tenderly — "she has 
 hurried this to me before the fight — that I might 
 know her love also — that I might fight better for 
 
THE NIGHT BEFORE 401- 
 
 you, my Prince — ^Louis — with that joy in my 
 heart." Prince Louis, his head thrown back, his ex- 
 pressionless eyes watching the rings of smoke which 
 he pufifed from his mouth — ring after ring, mount- 
 ing in dream-like procession to the low ceiling, con- 
 sidered again. Somewhere in the chain of events 
 of this love-afifair his keen practical sense felt a link 
 that did not fit — a link forced into connection. 
 Vaguely he discerned how it was — something had 
 happened to the Virginian letter — ^there had been a 
 confusion somewhere. To him the four words of 
 Alixe's postscript were final. "Pietro sends his 
 love." A subconscious reasoning made him certain 
 that Pietro would not have come into such a letter 
 if it had been indeed a love-letter; that the three 
 lines of writing just before the battle could not have 
 held another man's name, if they had been written 
 to the man whom she loved. Very dimly, very 
 surely the Prince concluded these things; and then 
 he lowered his cigar, and his gray dull eyes came 
 down from the ceiling and rested, kindly, on the 
 radiant face. "You are right, my friend. It was an 
 exquisite thought of your lady-love to put this other 
 weapon, this bright sword of happiness into your 
 hand, to fight with to-morrow. Mon Dieu, we will 
 reward her by sending her back a Marshal's baton 
 
402 THE MARSHAL 
 
 •by you; a Marshal's baton to-morrow, Francois! 
 How would it sound, par exemple, to say 'Madame 
 laMarechale'?" 
 
 The light from Franqois' eyes was like a lamp. 
 
 "My Prince — Sire — there are three things I have 
 desired all my life, all great things, but of them that 
 one — the baton of a Marshal — is the least. If I 
 might win her love — I have said; if I might help 
 put you in Napoleon's place and shout 'Vive I'Em- 
 pereuf for you on the throne of France ; if I might 
 fulfil the Emperor's prophecy and be not a 'Mar- 
 shal some day' any longer but a Marshal of 
 your empire — it is asking much of one lifetitae, 
 above all for a man born a peasant, is it not? Yet 
 of those three wishes one wonderful fulfilment has 
 come to me" — ^he gripped his letter closer — "and 
 one, I believe to-morrow brings. Before to-morrow 
 night" — his great eyes were lifted toward the ceil* 
 ing of the room, and in them was the rapt look of 
 the child of the farm-house in the Jura, a look of 
 a seer of visions, a look that caught at the Prince's 
 nerves, and made him draw a breath quickly. 
 "Something above myself tells me," Francois said 
 slowly, and the words came with a languid power, 
 as if his personality were a medium, "that before 
 to-morrow night the officers who stand about you 
 
THE NIGHT BEFORE 403 
 
 shall hail you Emperor over the body of a man who 
 lies before you." 
 
 In the silence, the Prince's watch could be heard 
 ticking. Francois shivered violently. 
 
 "Ugh!" he said, his teeth chattering. "It gives 
 me a crise de nerfs", that trick of vision-seeing. I 
 do not like it, and yet at times it seizes me. Why 
 should it come to a man happy as I am — 3. man who 
 has dared ask three enormous wishes of the good 
 fairies; who holds one of them in his hand" — he 
 lifted the letter — "who sees another in easy reach, 
 and who," he smiled brilliantly, "who will be well 
 content without the third, my Prince, the first two 
 being his." He shivered again. "Is the night raw? 
 It is as if I were in a grave, this coldness," he said, 
 looking about with a disturbed gaze, "yet my life is 
 just beginning." 
 
 The Prince rose and tossed his cigar to the fire- 
 place. "It is simply that you are tired, Franqois," 
 he said in the tranquil tones which no peril dis- 
 turbed. "The nerves of us all are stretched and 
 yours are the finest strung. Go to bed, and at day- 
 light you will be warm enough, with the work that 
 awaits us. Sleep well — ^good night, my friend." 
 
 Later, in the darkness of his chamber. Prince 
 Louis lay awake, his imagination filled with the man 
 
404 THE MARSHAL 
 
 whose dramatic personality appealed to him as few 
 had ever done. He thought of his own life, accord- 
 ing to his lights not a bad life, radically strong and 
 radically gentle, yet complicated, abnormal from 
 its start, with many shadows and many stains ; then 
 of the crystal clearness of this other's, with his 
 three wishes in which he trusted as simply as a child 
 would trust to the fairies. A smile almost tender 
 stole across the mask-like features in the dark. 
 "There is no doubt but the girl will marry the mar- 
 quis," he reflected. "Yet I am glad I left him his 
 hope and his happiness." A vision of Frangois' 
 beatified look rose before him. 
 
 "A man fights better so," the Prince murmured 
 aloud, and, his own sadness forgotten in another 
 man's joy, he fell asleep. 
 
CHAPTTR XXXIX 
 
 THE BUGLE-CALL 
 
 THE gray dawn of a Sunday morning began 
 to break over the sleeping city of Boulogne, 
 yet earlier than the dawn anxious eyes opened to 
 watch, and men's hearts beat fast to meet it. Scat- 
 tered in lodging-houses and barracks Louis Na- 
 poleon's followers were waiting before daylight for 
 the part they had to play. No man among them 
 was as quiet, as little nervous as the Prince, yet his 
 as well as every gallant heart of them felt a throb 
 of relief with its bound of excitement when a trum- 
 pet from the Austerlitz barracks, the barracks of 
 the fourth artillery. Napoleon's own regiment, sud- 
 denly sounded. 
 
 It was the signal, and in a moment the Prince and 
 his escort were moving down the dark street toward 
 Colonel Vaudrey's quarters, toward that ringing 
 note not yet died out from the pulsing air. One 
 could see a little bustle through the drowsy place — 
 a head out of a window here and there, blinking 
 
 405 
 
4o6 THE MARSHAL 
 
 puzzled eyes to see what the unusual summons, the 
 early trumpet note might mean. But a handful of 
 men in uniform was no sensation in the garrison 
 town and the good citizens went back to their morn- 
 ing naps. 
 
 The city was tranquil when Prince Louis reached 
 the barrack-gate, and the soldier-blood in him 
 rushed in a tide when he saw sixty mounted artil- 
 lerymen posted at the entrance, and beyond, in the 
 yard, statue-like, warlike, silent, the regiment \ 
 formed in square. I£ the fourth artillery followed 
 its colonel, if the day went well, this was the core 
 of his army. Colonel Vaudrey was in the center of 
 the square; the Prince marched quietly to him and 
 as he came, with a sharp simultaneous clatter that 
 was the music of Heaven to his ears, the whole regi- 
 ment presented arms. 
 
 In the glowing light the soldiers who fronted 
 toward him could see that the colorless face turned 
 grayer, but that was all, and quickly Colonel Vau- 
 drey spoke to his men. 
 
 "Soldiers of the fourth artillery," he said 
 loudly, "a revolution begins to-day under the 
 nephew of the Emperor Napoleon. He is before 
 you, and comes to lead you. He has returned to his 
 land to give back the people their rights, the army 
 
THE BUGLE-CALL 407 
 
 its greatness. He trusts in your courage, your de- 
 votion to accomplish this glorious mission. My sol- 
 diers, your colonel has answered for you. Shout 
 then with me 'Long live Napoleon! Long live the 
 Emperor.' " 
 
 The terse soldierly words were hardly finished 
 when the regiment, strongly Bonapartist always, 
 i^ carried off its feet now by the sight of the Prince, 
 by the honor of being the first to whom he came, 
 caught up the cry, and the deep voices sent it roll- 
 ing down the empty streets. Louis Bonaparte 
 standing erect, motionless, impassive as always, 
 wondered if a pulse might beat harder than this 
 and not break. He held up his hand, and rapidly, 
 yet with lingering shouts of enthusiasm, the tu- 
 mult quieted. The regiment to its farthest man 
 heard every word of the strong tones. 
 
 "Soldiers," he said, "I have come to you first 
 because between you and me there are great mem- 
 ories. With you the Emperor, my uncle, served as 
 captain; with you he won glory at the siege of Tou- 
 lon ; you opened the gates of Grenoble to him when 
 he came back from Elba. Soldiers, the honor of be- 
 ginning a new empire shall be yours ; yours shall be 
 the honor of saluting first the eagle of Austerlitz 
 and Wagram." He caught the standard from an 
 
4o8 THE MARSHAL 
 
 officer and held it high. "It is the sign of French 
 glory; it has shone over every battle-field; it has 
 passed through every capitol of Europe. Soldiers, 
 rally to the eagle ! I trust it to you — we will march 
 to-day against the oppressors, crying 'Long live 
 France'." 
 
 One who has not heard a regiment gone mad can 
 not know how it was. With deafening clatter and 
 roar every sword was drawn and the shakos flew 
 aloft and again and again and again the men's deep 
 voices sent up in broken magnificent chorus the 
 great historic cry to which armies had gone into 
 battle. 
 
 "Vive I'Empereur! Vive Napoleon!" 
 The souls of a thousand men were on fire with 
 memories and traditions, with a passion of conse- 
 cration to a cause, and as if the spell of the name 
 grew stronger with its repetition they shouted over 
 and over, in tremendous unison, over and over and 
 over. 
 
 "Vive Napoleon! Vive I'Empereur!" 
 It was necessary at last for the quiet slender 
 young man who was the storm-center to raise his 
 hand again, and with a word, with the glimmer of 
 a smile to speak his gratitude — to stop the storm. 
 There was much to be done. The fourth artillery 
 
THE BUGLE-CALL 409 
 
 was but one of several regiments to be gained if the 
 victory were to be complete. Colonel Lombard was 
 despatched to a printing ofHce with proclamations 
 to be struck off; Lieutenant Laity hurried away to 
 his battalion; a detachment was sent to hold the 
 telegraph office; the tumult once quieted, the yard 
 was a scene of efficient business, for all this had 
 been planned and each officer knew his work. In a 
 very few moments the officers of the third artil- 
 lery who were with the Prince had hastened to their 
 quarters, another had been sent to arouse the forty- 
 sixth of the line, at the Place d' Alton barracks, and 
 shortly Prince Louis himself was on his way to the 
 same place. Through the streets of the city, no 
 longer empty, he passed with his officers, and the 
 people poured from their houses, and joined and 
 answered the shouts of the soldiers. 
 
 "Vive I'Empereur!" the soldiers cried. "It is the 
 nephew of Napoleon," and the citizens threw back, 
 "Vive I'Empereurt It is the son of the honest 
 king of Holland ! It is the grandson of Josephine !" 
 
 They pressed so close about the small figure in 
 its Swiss uniform of a colonel that for a moment 
 he was separated from his officers, and Colonel 
 Vaudrey, smiling for all his military discipline, was 
 forced to order his mounted artillerymen to clear 
 
4IO THE MARSHAL 
 
 the road. Every moment an old soldier broke out 
 of the mass and embraced the eagle which Lieu- 
 tenant de Querelles carried proudly high above all 
 this emotion; the soldiers' eyes flashed with suc- 
 cess; the Prince's heart beat high for joy to know 
 that he had not misread the heart of army or peo- 
 ple. When the column passed the gendarmerie the 
 guard turned out and presented arms, shouting, 
 "Long live the Emperor !" So he went through the 
 streets of Boulogne, Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, 
 eight long years before he came to his own, and 
 marched in triumph and acclamation to a failure. 
 
 And close by his side, his look as radiant as the 
 Prince's look was contained and impassive, marched 
 always Francois Beaupre. The hard-earned mili- 
 tary knowledge, the patient toil of preparation had 
 come into play, and in a hundred ways the man had 
 been useful. With no exact rank as yet, but ready 
 at any moment, eager for the hardest task, never 
 asking for rest, quick-witted, resourceful, officers 
 as well as Prince had developed a habit of turning 
 to Beaupre for service after service. And always 
 they were met with a glad consent which encour- 
 aged them to ask more until the Prince had said : 
 
 "It is the case of the willing horse ; I will not per- 
 
THE BUGLE-CALL 411 
 
 mit that my right-hand man be worked to death — it 
 must stop." 
 
 To-day, however, Francois had a definite duty of 
 responsibility. While the Prince marched, gather- 
 ing strength at every yard, through the town toward 
 the Place d' Alton at its farther side. Colonel 
 Couard of the third artillery had gone to pro- 
 claim the great news to his regiment and to hold 
 them ready. In case of success at the Place d' Al- 
 ton, Beaupre was to go back and bring them to 
 join the Prince. In case of failure they were to be 
 his reserve. The Place d' Alton barracks lay be- 
 tween town and ramparts, to be reached from the 
 town side only by a narrow lane ; but the ramparts 
 commanded with a large open space the yard where 
 the soldiers assembled. If the Prince entered from 
 the town side, from the street — Faubourg Pierre — 
 only an escort could go with him. If he went by 
 the ramparts the whole enthusiastic fourth artil- 
 lery might be at his back. This then was the route 
 chosen. 
 
 But as the Prince and the regiment and the swing- 
 ing shouting mass of citizens made its way toward 
 the quarters, suddenly, too late, the officers about 
 his Highness saw that some one had blundered. 
 
412 THE MARSHAL 
 
 Somewhere in the van a man had lost his head, had 
 forgotten, and the compact inelastic procession had 
 been led toward the approach from the Faubourg 
 Pierre, the narrow lane at the side toward the city. 
 It was a serious mistake, yet not of necessity fatal, 
 and at all events they must make the best of it. The 
 Prince could not make a dramatic entrance at the 
 head of a shouting regiment, but for all that he 
 might win the forty-sixth. 
 
 He did win the forty-sixth. Something had hap- 
 pened to the officer sent to arouse them — another 
 slip in the chain — and instead of being drawn up 
 in the yard they were getting ready for Sunday in- 
 spection, but they flocked to the windows at the 
 noise, they rushed into the yard at the name of 
 Napoleon. An old sergeant of the Imperial Guard 
 ran forward and kissed Prince Louis' hand, and the 
 reserved face lightened — ^he knew the value of a bit 
 of sentiment with Frenchmen; he was not wrong; 
 in a moment the line regiment had caught up the 
 cries of "Vive I'Empereur!" raised by the artillery- 
 men, and the earlier scene of the Austerlitz bar- 
 racks was being repeated here. Prince Louis, pale 
 and composed in the center of the roar of voices, 
 the seething sea of excitement, heard a word at his 
 ear and turned. 
 
THE BUGLE-CALL 413 
 
 "Sire, it is success. I go to bring up your Ma- 
 jesty's other regiment," Franqois said, and the 
 Prince answered quietly : 
 
 "Yes, it is success. Go, mon ami." 
 
 In a moment the messenger had thrown himself 
 on the horse of an artilleryman and forced a way 
 through the recoiling mass, down the lane, and out 
 to the Faubourg Pierre. In the free street he gal- 
 loped the horse, through the windings that he had 
 learned with this moment in his mind. The third 
 was drawn up waiting, and a shout like a clap 
 of thunder greeted his news. Buoyant, proud, he 
 took his place by the colonel at their head, and gaily 
 the joyful march back began. The s(in had come 
 from behind the clouds of early morning and shone 
 gloriously on glancing steel, on the brilliant swing- 
 ing line of the regiment. Low branches of trees 
 brushed Francois' shoulder as he rode and the touch 
 thrilled him, for he knew by it that this was true 
 and not a dream, and he, Franqois Beaupre, was 
 leading a regiment of France to France's Emperor. 
 The glory, the joy of his happy life, culminated in 
 those bright moments. 
 
 Suddenly a man galloped from a side street, in 
 front of the advancing troops; he stopped, saluted, 
 called a word. It was not a day to take anything 
 
'414 THE MARSHAL 
 
 for granted ; Colonel Couard halted the regiment. 
 
 "The arsenal," the man gasped. "They have 
 taken Monsieur de Persigny prisoner. Monsieur le 
 General Voirol is on his way, but he is distant. It 
 is a step from here. The third artillery could arrive 
 there before him — ^they would surrender — Monsieur 
 de Persigny would be released" — he stopped breath- 
 less. 
 
 The colonel turned an inquiring look on Fran- 
 9ois. As the Prince's messenger, as the man whom 
 he had seen closest to the Prince's person, he de- 
 ferred to him, and Frangois realized that he must 
 make, and make quickly, a momentous decision. 
 The arsenal was immense and lightly guarded. De 
 Persigny had been sent with a small force to take 
 it, for the ammunition it held might at any moment 
 be of supreme importance. It seemed that the de- 
 tachment which guarded it had been underrated, for 
 it had made prisoners of De Persigny and his men, 
 and this aide-de-camp had alone escaped. If they 
 were to be rescued, if the arsenal was to be gained 
 for the Prince, this very moment must be seized. 
 General Voirol, royalist, the commandant at Bou- 
 logne, was on his way with reinforcements and the 
 third might well hold the arsenal against him but 
 not gain it from him. With his whole being con- 
 
THE BUGLE-CALL 415 
 
 centrated Franqois thought. The orders were plain 
 — to lead the third artillery to join the Prince on 
 the ramparts. But there are times in history when 
 to obey orders is treachery. Was not this moment, 
 heavy with the right or wrong of his decision, one 
 of them? Was it not the part of a mind capable of 
 greatness to know and grasp the flying second of 
 opportunity? Would not the Prince reproach him, 
 if he stupidly let this one chance in a thousand go 
 by, for servile fear of disobeying orders? He had 
 left his Highness safe with two regiments at his 
 back ; this other could do nothing at the Place d' Al- 
 ton barracks but swell the ranks; here, by a turn of a 
 hand, they might win for the cause the very blood 
 and bones of success, a mighty arsenal, and for 
 themselves honor and gratitude from their Emperor. 
 In Fran9ois' mind was a touch of innocent vanity 
 that he should have the power to render so signal a 
 service, yet no thought at all for himself or for the 
 honor he might gain or lose; whole-heartedly he 
 weighed the reasons why or why not it would be 
 best for the Prince. 
 
 The aide-de-camp's voice broke in. "My Colonel, 
 I beg you, I implore you, save Monsieur de Per- 
 signy. The Prince loves him- — he will be very angry 
 if he is left helpless — they threaten to execute him 
 
41 6 THE MARSHAL 
 
 ■ — I myself heard — I implore you. Monsieur le 
 Colonel. For the rest, it is indeed the moment of 
 fate to win the arsenal." 
 
 I Franqois' face lit with a fire of decision. "My 
 Colonel, it is for the Prince — it would be his will — 
 we must not let slip the gift of destiny. To the 
 arsenal !" 
 
 And while orders rang out sharply and the regi- 
 ment wheeled into sliding lines that doubled and 
 parted and flowed together again in an elastic 
 stream toward the looming arsenal, Franqois, with 
 a quick word to De Persigny's aide-de-camp, was 
 writing rapidly on a bit of paper. 
 
 "You will take this to the Prince at once," he 
 ordered, and the young officer saluted, for he, too, 
 knew, as most of them did, this man's anomalous 
 yet strong hold on Prince Louis. 
 
 Franqois rode again to the colonel's side, and he 
 did not doubt that he had decided rightly. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE ACCOLADE AT LAST 
 
 IT is a common tragedy that men, being human, 
 can not see all sides of a question; that a deci- 
 sion right in one light may bring disaster in an- 
 other. If events had stayed where he left them, 
 Franqois Beaupre and Colonel Couard and his regi- 
 ment would have won honor and eternal gratitude 
 from Louis Bonaparte for the quarter of an hour's 
 work which made the arsenal theirs. Events, in- 
 stead of standing still, or going forward, took an 
 unexpected sinister turn, not long after Franqois' 
 going. 
 
 The happy Prince, smiling the shadowy smile 
 which made his face winning, stood in the center of 
 triumphant turmoil; his new followers, the men of 
 the forty-sixth, crowded about him shouting, cheer- 
 ing, kissing his hands, and the loyal fourth artil- 
 lerymen fraternized, embraced, congratulated the 
 men of the line regiment. The narrow courtyard 
 was a hubbub of rapturous excitement, and the 
 
4i8 THE MARSHAL 
 
 Prince's officers — Montholon, Vaudrey, Voisin, 
 Parquin, D'Hunin, Querelles — these and others 
 whose names Frenchmen knew, surrounded the 
 small figure which yet had so much of royalty, and 
 laughed and chatted light-heartedly. In a few mo- 
 ments, when Colonel Laity's engineers and the third 
 artillery should ha^ve arrived, the Prince would have 
 five thousand men under his command. The great 
 game was practically won — Prince Louis was all 
 bt *: Emperor. 
 
 Suddenly, above the sea of sound, a commotion 
 was heard at the farther end of the barrack yard: 
 The colonel of the forty-sixth. Colonel Talandier, 
 had arrived. Very loyal to Louis Phillipe, very an- 
 gry at the scene before him, he would not believe 
 the news. He called excitedly, and the men's voices 
 died down as they saw him gesticulating. 
 
 "Soldiers," he cried, "you are deceived! This 
 man for whom you are shouting is an adventurer, 
 an impostor !" 
 
 In the shock of silence which followed his words, 
 another voice rang out, clear and indignant, the 
 voice of a staff -officer whom they all knew. 
 
 "It is not the nephew of the Emperor ! It is the 
 nephew of Colonel Vaudrey! I recc^nize him!" the 
 officer cried in a strong staccato, and a gasp as if 
 
THE ACCOLADE AT LAST 419 
 
 ice-water had been scattered went through the 
 crowded place. 
 
 There is nothing more absurd in history than the 
 instant efJect of this quick-witted lie. Only with a 
 mercurial French mob, perhaps, could it have suc- 
 ceeded, but it succeeded here with hopeless swift- 
 ness. It flew from mouth to mouth — they wei'e 
 cheated, tricked; the Emperor's nephew, their 
 Prince, had not come ; this young man was a make- 
 believe, a substitute, the nephew of an officer; some 
 of the soldiers who had shown most enthusiasm 
 almost lost their minds now in rage. 
 
 Colonel Talandier began to form his men; the 
 Prince, composed as ever, yet earnest, swift, tried 
 to rally his, but it was impossible to start anywhere, 
 in this confusion, for line and artillery had be- 
 come mixed in an unmanageable mob. A word 
 from either Prince or colonel and blood would have 
 flowed. De Querelles begged leave to force a way 
 through the infantry for the Prince. But Louis 
 Bonaparte, considerate and self-controlled would 
 not shed a drop of blood of these men who had 
 hailed him Emperor a moment before — he would 
 not believe them his enemies. He threw himself into 
 the midst of them and they received him with bayo- 
 nets fixed, even .forcing him to parry a blow or 
 
420 THE MARSHAL 
 
 two; he tried to seize a trooper's horse that so he 
 might be a rallying-point for his column, but that 
 failed, too. 
 
 Yet the steadfast mind kept its hope; he glanced 
 every moment toward the ramparts. The third must 
 appear there shortly ; it could not be many minutes. 
 They would turn Jhe tide. One glim^pse of that 
 solid swinging regiment and the day would be 
 saved — and salvation was certain. The third was 
 coming, would be here any second — Franqois' faith- 
 fulness could be trusted. 
 
 Slowly, with his ofificers crowding about him, he 
 was driven toward the barrack wall, and, in a flash, 
 from somewhere, a man was before him, thrusting 
 a bit of paper at him. With a swift movement he 
 had it open and read : 
 
 "Destiny throws arsenal into our hands. Have 
 taken third artillery to hold it. I wait to bring the 
 news — a jewel for your crown. Vive I'Empereur! 
 
 "Beaupre." 
 
 Few men ever heard Louis Napoleon sob, yet the 
 officers who stood about him at that moment caught 
 a sound that wrung them. It meant the end, and 
 they knew it. Passionately he crushed the paper 
 and threw it into the seething mass. 
 
'' Sire, I bring you the arsenal.' 
 
THE ACCOLADE AT LAST 421 
 
 "Fool! He has thrown away the empire," he 
 hissed through sat teeth. "If I could run him 
 through !" 
 
 Then, quickly, he was himself again. Serenely 
 while the maddened soldiers pressed on him, he 
 turned and spoke a quiet word to his friends, and 
 then, serenely, too, with a gaze that was half con- 
 temptuous, half friendly, he let himself be made 
 prisoner. 
 
 Yet the fight was not all over even now. On the 
 ramparts, where the Prince and his column should 
 have been, had gathered from the Faubourg Pierre 
 a formidable crowd, who advanced angrily to his 
 rescue, and pelted the line regiment with stones, 
 and cried again and again, "Vive I'Empereur!" 
 Colonel Talandier had to reckon with a many-sided 
 trouble. But the heart of it was in his hands, and 
 slowly order and the old rule were coming back. 
 
 The tumult of the struggle had quieted, the vola- 
 tile forty-sixth regiment, returned to its allegiance, 
 stood formed in ranks, in appearance as firm for the 
 king as the everlasting hills, and, at the end of the 
 court was a sad and silent, yet a stately group of 
 men, the Prince who had almost been Emperor and 
 those who had watched slipping with his hope, their, 
 hopes of grandeur. 
 
422 THE MARSHAL 
 
 Suddenly a horse's hoofs rang down the lane 
 from the Faubourg; a rider clattered at gallop into 
 the yard and across the front of the soldiers, and 
 every one in the agitated company saw that the man 
 reeling in his saddle was wounded. With blind 
 gaze he stared about as he reined in, and then he 
 caught sight of the sorry group, the Prince and his 
 officers. To Francois Beaupfe, clutching to this 
 world by one thread of duty, this was the victorious 
 Emperor and his triumphant staff. With a choking 
 shout he threw himself from the horse and fell, too 
 far gone to stand, at the Prince's feet. 
 
 "Sire, I bring you the arsenal," he stammered 
 painfully, loudly. In the silence of the courtyard 
 one heard every word. "Two wishes — good 
 fairies — " he gasped. And then, his mouth twist- 
 ing to a smile, "the third — is no matter." 
 
 Louis Bonaparte looked down at the man whose 
 dying face stared up at him in a rapture of loyalty ; 
 whose life had been consecrated to him; whose death 
 was for him; who had lost him an empire. For a 
 second a struggle shook him, and then the large 
 kindness through which he came nearest to great- 
 ness, overflowed. In the career to come was no 
 finer moment, no higher inspiration for Prince Louis 
 than this. He bent close to the glazing eyes. 
 
THE ACCOLADE AT LAST 423 
 
 "Courage!" he said clearly. "'"Courage, mon ami. 
 Live for me and for our country. Live, my brother 
 Franqois — Chevalier Beaupre, Marshal of the Em- 
 pire." And the Prince's sword flashed out and 
 touched his shoulder. 
 
 The other world closing about him Franqois 
 heard — ^they did not doubt it who saw the eyes flame 
 as a firefly flames out of darkness, and when his 
 lips stirred they knew that he wished to cry once 
 more "Vive I'Empereur!" 
 
 Frenchmen all, shaken with the living drama, the 
 ruined men who stood about a defeated Prince cried 
 it for him — ^the old magic cry of the Bonapartes. 
 With kepis lifted, as one man, "Vive I'Empereur!" 
 the deep voices cried, hailing a lost cause for a lost 
 life. But only the Prince knew that a thought came 
 after; only he caught, on the gasp which let the soul 
 out, a girl's name. He bent quickly again, with an 
 eager assurance, but it was late. The accolade 
 of a higher king had touched his servant, and the 
 knightly soul of Frangois had risen. 
 
 THE IND 
 
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