The Quest of Glory - Marjorie Bowen (most interesting books to read txt) 📗
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The Maréchal cast down the map on top of the letter from France and
asked for wine. When it was brought M. de Broglie put it aside in
silence, but M. de Belleisle drank heavily, then dropped into his
cushions with a sigh of physical pain.
When the servant had left, the younger man spoke; he had recovered his
composure and something of his self-confident manner.
“Do you mean to obey these orders, Monsieur?”
“I am a Maréchal de France, Monsieur le Duc, and I obey the orders of
France.”
Crippled by gout as he was he managed to sit upright, half supporting
himself against the carved back of the couch.
“M. de Fleury speaks for France—you have been too long in
Prague—abandon the town and join Maillelois, so you may make a dash on
Vienna,” he gasped. “Vienna!—we shall see hell sooner.”
With a quivering hand he pressed his handkerchief to his pallid lips,
then wiped the damp of pain from his brow.
“But it shall be done—do not think, Monsieur, that I shirk the duty.
France has spoken. You will make ready for a council to-night.”
M. de Broglie shrugged his shoulders.
“You at least, M. le Maréchal, are not fit to leave Prague.”
M. de Belleisle narrowed his clever eyes.
“While I can draw a breath to form a sentence I do not resign command
again,” he said with cold passion. The Duke bowed.
“That is as you please, Monsieur.”
Their common responsibility, their mutual anxiety for a moment obscured
their jealous rivalry. M. de Broglie could not restrain a little
exclamation of despair.
“We shall not get ten regiments through!” he cried. The Maréchal
answered, rigid with secret pain and mental anguish—
“No more words—the fiat is there; we shall leave Prague to-morrow. God
have mercy on the poor devils in the ranks—fine men too,” he added in
spite of himself, “and, by Heaven, we might have stormed Vienna if I
had had a chance!”
“You will hold the council here?” asked M. de Broglie.
“In my outer chamber—see to it for me, M. le Duc. I must confess that I
am a sick man and something overwhelmed.”
His colleague looked at him a moment, then crossed the room impulsively
and kissed the hand that lay on the brocaded velvet cushions; then, with
a deep obeisance, withdrew.
To reach the quarters of the aide-de-camp whose duty it would be to
summon the Generals to the sudden council, M. de Broglie had to pass
through the guardroom of this portion of the irregular buildings that
formed the Hradcany.
Two officers of the régiment du roi sat by an insufficient fire; one
was reading, the other, of a singular and youthful beauty, was writing a
letter on a drum-head. As they rose and saluted M. de Broglie paused.
“Ah, M. de Vauvenargues,” he said excitedly, “what do you read?”
“Corneille, Monsieur,” answered the Marquis.
“I think you are a philosopher,” returned M. de Broglie. “I will give
you something to meditate upon. The army leaves Prague to-morrow.”
Georges d’Espagnac looked up with a flush of joy. “Monsieur,” he cried,
“then it is to be action at last!” The Duke gave him a flickering look
of pity.
“A retreat to Eger, my friend. I hope,” he added gravely, “we shall all
meet again there.”
He saluted and passed on.
“Oh!” exclaimed the Marquis softly—“a retreat in mid-December.”
He closed the volume of Corneille and glanced at the eager face of his
companion.
They could hear the wind that swirled the snow without.
The French quitted Prague on the evening of the 16th of December,
leaving only a small garrison in the Hradcany; by the 18th the vanguard
had reached Pürgitz at the crossing of the rivers, and then the snow,
that had paused for two days, commenced towards evening and the cold
began to increase almost beyond human endurance.
At first their retreat had been harried by Austrian guns and charges of
the Hungarian Pandours, but the enemy did not follow them far. The
cannon was no longer in their ears; for twenty-four hours they marched
through the silence of a barren, deserted country.
The road was now so impassable, the darkness so impenetrable, the storm
so severe, the troops so exhausted that M. de Belleisle ordered a halt,
though all they had for camping-ground was a ragged ravine, a strip of
valley by the river, and, for the Generals, a few broken houses in the
devastated village of Pürgitz.
The officers of the régiment du roi received orders to halt as they
were painfully making their way through the steep mountain paths; they
shrugged and laughed and proceeded without comment to make their camp.
It was impossible to put up the tents, both by reason of the heavy storm
of snow and the rocky ground; the best they could do was to fix some of
the canvas over the piled gun carriages and baggage wagons and so get
men and horses into some kind of shelter.
No food was sent them, and it was too dark for any search to be made. It
was impossible to find a spot dry enough to light a fire on. The men
huddled together under the rocks and rested with their heads on their
saddles within the feeble protection of the guns and carts.
The officers sat beneath a projecting point of rock, over which a canvas
had been hastily dragged, and muffled themselves in their cloaks and
every scrap of clothing they could find; behind them their horses were
fastened, patient and silent.
“I am sorry,” said M. de Vauvenargues, “that there are so many women
and feeble folk with us.”
“Another of M. de Belleisle’s blunders,” answered the Colonel calmly.
“He should have forced them to remain in Prague.”
“There was never a Protestant,” remarked Lieutenant d’Espagnac, “who
would remain in Prague at the mercy of the Hungarians.”
The other officers were silent; it seemed to them vexatious that this
already difficult retreat should be further hampered by the presence of
some hundred of refugees—men, women, and children, French travellers,
foreign inhabitants of Prague, Bavarians who wished to return to their
own country, Hussites who were afraid of being massacred by the
Pandours.
M. de Vauvenargues had it particularly in his mind; he had seen more
than one dead child on the route since they left Prague. Eger was still
many leagues off and both the weather and road increasing in severity
and difficulty.
“I wonder if Belleisle knew what he was doing,” he remarked
thoughtfully.
M. d’Espagnac laughed; his soaring spirits were not in the least cast
down. He had just managed, with considerable difficulty, to light a
lantern, which he hung from a dry point of rock. Its sickly ray
illuminated the group and showed features a little white and pinched
above the close wrapped cloaks; but Georges d’Espagnac bloomed like a
winter rose. There was no trace of fatigue on his ardent countenance; he
leant back against the cold grey rock under the lantern and began to hum
an aria of Glück’s that had been fashionable when he last saw Paris. His
hair was loosened from the ribbon and half freed from powder; it showed
in streaks of bright brown through the pomade.
“There will be no moving till dawn,” said M. de Biron with an air of
disgust. The snow was beginning to invade their temporary shelter.
Another officer spoke impatiently.
“There must be food—many of our men have not eaten since they started.
How many men does M. de Belleisle hope to get to Eger in this manner?”
There was no answer: the blast of heavy snow chilled speech. Some faint
distant shouting and cries were heard, the neighing of a horse, the
rumble of a cart, then silence.
Georges d’Espagnac continued his song; he seemed in a happy dream.
Presently he fell asleep, resting his head against the shoulder of the
other lieutenant. M. de Biron and the second captain either slept also
or made a good feint of it. The Marquis rose and took the lantern from
the wall; it was unbearable to him to sit there in the darkness, amid
this silent company, while there was so much to do outside. The thought
of his hungry men pricked him. The food wagons must have overlooked
them. It was surely possible to find some member of the commissariat
department. The army could not have reached already such a pitch of
confusion.
He stepped softly from under the canvas. To his great relief he found
that the snow had almost ceased, but the air was glacial. As he paused,
endeavouring to see his way by means of the poor rays of the lantern,
his horse gave a low whinny after him. The Marquis felt another
pang—the poor brutes must be hungry too. He began to descend the rocky
path; he was cold even through his heavy fur mantle, and his hands were
stiff despite his fur gloves. The path was wet and slippery, half frozen
already, though the snow had only lain a moment.
In every crevice and hole in the rocks the soldiers were lying or
sitting; many of them were wrapped in the tent canvases and horses’
blankets; here and there was a dead mule with a man lying close for
warmth, or a wounded trooper dying helplessly in his stiffening blood.
The Marquis saw these sights intermittently and imperfectly by the
wavering light of his lantern. He set his teeth; after nine years’
service he was still sensitive to sights of horror.
When he reached the level ground by the river that was the principal
camping ground, he stopped bewildered amidst utter confusion.
There were neither tents, nor sentries, nor outposts, merely thousands
of men, lying abandoned to cold and hunger, amidst useless wagons of
furniture; and as the Marquis moved slowly across the field he saw no
other sight than this.
What might lie beyond the range of his lantern he could not tell, but
all he could see seemed abandoned to despair.
A man leading a mule knocked up against him; he also held a feeble
lantern; his dress and the chests the mule carried showed him to be a
surgeon.
“This is a pitiful sight, Monsieur,” he said. “Most of the wagons were
lost in that storm yesterday, and how am I to work with nothing?” He
lifted his shoulders and repeated, “with nothing?”
“Is there no food?” asked the Marquis.
“In Pürgitz, yes—but who is to distribute it on such a night?”
“We are like to have worse nights. Is M. de Belleisle in Pürgitz?”
“And some regiments. They are in luck, Monsieur.”
M. de Vauvenargues stood thoughtfully, and the surgeon passed on. Two
officers rode up on horseback, attended by a soldier with a torch; the
Marquis accosted them.
“Messieurs, I am Vauvenargues of the régiment du roi,” he said. “We
are encamped up the ravine, and there is no provision for men or
horses—”
By the light of the torch he recognized in the foremost officer M. de
Broglie, whose bright hair gleamed above a pale face.
“Maréchal,” he added, “I do not know how many will be alive by the
morning.”
“M. de Vauvenargues!” exclaimed the General, with a faint smile. “I am
helpless—absolutely helpless. The food wagons have not come up—some, I
believe, are lost.”
The Marquis looked at him
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