<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></SPAN>CHAPTER XIV</h2>
<p class='center'>NEY'S RETREAT</p>
<p>Ney's corps, as usual, had remained at Smolensk as the rear-guard of the
army. The rest and abundance of food did much to restore their <i>morale</i>.
Ney had utilized the time they remained there to see that the arms were
examined, and new ones served out from the magazines in place of those
found to be defective. A certain amount of clothing was also served out
to the troops, and discipline restored. The numerous stragglers
belonging to the divisions that had gone on were incorporated with his
regiments, and all prepared for the toilsome and dangerous march before
them. They believed that at Krasnoi they should come up with the main
body of the army. But Krasnoi had already fallen, and the enemy were
mustering thickly along the road.</p>
<p>"We have a rough time before us, Jules," one of the veterans said. "I
should not say as much to any of the youngsters, but your spirits seem
proof against troubles. You see, in the first place, we know really
nothing of what is going on. For the last four days we have heard the
sound of cannon in the air. It is a long way off, and one feels it
rather than hears it; but there has certainly been heavy and almost
constant fighting. Well, that shows that there are Russians ahead of
us. Never was I in a country before where we could get no news. It is
all guess-work. There may be 50,000 Russians already between us and
Davoust's division, and there may be only a handful of Cossacks. It is a
toss-up. Nothing seems to go as one would expect in this country. We are
at a big disadvantage; for the skill of our generals is thrown away when
they are working altogether in the dark.</p>
<p>"Do you know, this reminds me a good deal of our pursuit of your army to
Corunna; only there I was one of the hunters, while here we are the
hunted. When we entered the towns they had quitted we heard that they
were altogether disorganized—a mere rabble of fugitives. But whenever
we came up to them they turned round and fought like their own
bull-dogs; and never did they make a stronger stand than they did when
we came up at last and caught them at Corunna. There was the army we had
been told was a disorganized mass standing in as good order, and with as
firm a front, as if they had but just landed from their ships. And it
was not in appearance only. They had 16,000 men; we had 20,000. They had
only six or eight cannon, having embarked the remainder on board their
ships; we had over fifty guns; and with Soult in command of us, there
was not a man but regarded the affair as being as good as over, and
considered that the whole of them would fall into our hands. Well, it
wasn't so. We were on higher ground than they were, and soon silenced
their little guns; and the village of Elvira, in front of their
position, was carried without difficulty.</p>
<p>"Suddenly their reserve marched round, fell on our flank, and threatened
our great battery that was in position there. They drove us out of
Elvira, and for a time held us in check altogether. The fight round
there became very hot; but they pushed forward and continued to attack
us so desperately that they partly rolled our left up, and if it had not
been that night set in—the fight had not begun until two
o'clock—things would have gone very badly with us, for we were falling
back in a great deal of confusion. There was a river behind us with but
a single bridge by which we could retreat, and I can tell you we were
glad indeed when the English ceased to press us and the firing stopped.
All night their picket-fires burned, and we were expecting to renew the
battle in the morning, when we found that their position was deserted,
and that they were embarking on board their ships. That shows that
although troops may be greatly disorganized in a retreat they do not
fight any the worse when you come up to them.</p>
<p>"The English had practically no guns, they had no cavalry, they were
inferior in numbers, and yet they beat us off. Their back was against a
wall. You see, they knew that if they didn't do it there was nothing but
a French prison before them. It is the same thing with us, lad; we don't
want to fight—we want to get away if we can. But if we have got to
fight we shall do it better than ever, for defeat would mean death; and
if a soldier has got to die, he would a thousand times rather die by a
musket-ball or a bayonet-thrust than by cold and hunger. There is one
thing in our favour, the country we have to cross now is for the most
part forest; so we shall have wood for our bivouacs, and if we have to
leave the road it will cover our movements and give us a chance of
making our way round the enemy. You will find that child a heavy burden,
Jules. I do not blame you for bringing her along with you, but when
things come to such a pass as this a man needs every ounce of his
strength."</p>
<p>"I am aware of that," Jules said, looking at Stephanie as she stood
laughing and talking with some of the soldiers at a fire close by; "but
I believe that I shall save her. I cannot help thinking she would never
have given that little cry which met my ears as I passed by the broken
carriage, if it had not been meant that she should be saved. To all
appearance she was well-nigh insensible, and she would have suffered no
more pain. It would have been a cruel instead of a kind action to save
her, when she was already well-nigh dead. I firmly believe that, whoever
falls during the struggle that may be before us, that child will get
through safely and be restored to her parents. I don't say that I think
that I myself shall go through it, but my death does not necessarily
mean hers. If she falls into the hands of the peasants, and tells them
who she is, they may take care of her for the sake of getting a reward,
and she may in time be restored to her friends. At any rate, as long as
I have strength to carry her I shall assuredly do so; when I cannot, I
shall wrap her in my cloak and shall lie down to die, bidding her sit
wrapped up in it till she sees some Russians approaching. She will then
speak to them in their own language and tell them who she is, and that
they will get a great reward from her parents if they take care of her
and send her to them."</p>
<p>"You are a good fellow, comrade—a man with a heart. I trust that,
whoever gets out of this alive, you may be one of them. To most of us it
matters little one way or the other. We have had our share of good luck,
and cannot expect that the bullets will always avoid us. Now let us turn
in, for we march at daybreak. At any rate, we may think ourselves lucky
to have had five days' rest here, with no more trouble than was needed
to keep the Russians from occupying that place across the river."</p>
<p>Julian called Stephanie to him, lay down by the side of his comrade near
the fire, and was soon fast asleep. They were under arms before daylight
broke, and in a few minutes were on the way. They had marched but half a
mile when a series of tremendous explosions were heard—the magazines
left behind at Smolensk had been blown up, together with such buildings
as the fire had before spared. 112 guns had been left behind, there
being only sufficient horses remaining to draw twelve. The fighting
force was reduced to 7000 combatants, but there were almost as many
stragglers, more or less armed, with them. The march led by the side of
the Dnieper, and they bivouacked that night at Korodnia. The next day
they arrived at a point within four miles of Krasnoi, where, on a hill,
fronted by a deep ravine, 12,000 Russians, with forty guns, had taken up
their position.</p>
<p>A thick mist covered the lower ground, and the advance of the French was
not perceived by the enemy until they were within a short distance of
its crest. Then the forty guns poured a storm of grape into the leading
regiment. The survivors, cheering loudly, rushed forward at the
batteries, and had almost reached them, when a heavy mass of Russian
infantry flung themselves upon them with the bayonet, and after a short
but desperate struggle hurled them down the hill again. The Russian
cavalry charged them on the slope, and swept through their shattered
ranks. Ney, ignorant that Napoleon had already left Krasnoi, and that
the whole Russian army barred his way, made another effort to force a
passage. He planted his twelve guns on a height above the ravines, and
sent forward several companies of sappers and miners to endeavour to
carry the battery again. Gallantly they made their way up the hill
through a storm of fire. But the Russians again fell upon them in great
force, and few indeed were enabled to make the descent of the hill and
rejoin their comrades.</p>
<p>Darkness had set in now, and Ney, finding it impossible to make his way
further, and feeling sure that had the Emperor been still at Krasnoi he
would have sent a force to his assistance, fell back into the forest.
His position was a desperate one; the scanty supply of provisions with
which they had started was exhausted, and they were in an unknown
country, surrounded by foes, without a guide, without carriage for the
wounded, without an idea of the direction in which to march. The Russian
general sent in two flags of truce, offering him terms of capitulation
which would save the life of himself and of his brave soldiers. Ney,
however, was not yet conquered. He detained the messengers with the
flags of truce, lest they might take news to their general of the
position of his force, and then, with all capable of the exertion,
continued his march. They passed in silence within half a mile of the
Cossack fires, and reaching a village on the Dnieper, attempted the
passage; but the ice broke under the first gun, and it was necessary to
abandon the whole of the artillery and every vehicle.</p>
<p>Before the entire body had passed, the Cossacks, attracted by the sound
made by the troops marching across the ice, arrived and captured several
hundred prisoners, for the most part stragglers. In a village further on
they found temporary rest, surprising a few Cossacks and capturing their
horses, which afforded a ration to the troops; but on the next morning a
great swarm of Cossacks appeared on the plain and opened a heavy
artillery fire. Unable to advance in that direction the column turned
towards a wood on its left, but as it was about to enter the refuge, a
battery concealed there poured a volley of grape into them. The column
hesitated, but Ney dashed to the front, and they rushed forward and
drove the battery from the wood. All day they continued their march
through the forest, until, coming upon a village, they obtained a few
hours' rest and shelter and some food.</p>
<p>It had been a terribly heavy day, for the snow here was not, as on the
road, trampled down, and the marching was very heavy. Julian had carried
the child the greater part of the day. The grenadiers had not been
actively engaged, as they formed the rear-guard, and several times his
friend the sergeant relieved him of Stephanie's weight.</p>
<p>"This is better luck than I looked for, comrade," he said as they cooked
the food they had found in the village, filled their pipes, and sat down
by a blazing fire. "<i>Peste!</i> I was frightened as we crossed the river
last night. We knew the ice was not strong, and if it had given way as
we crossed, not a man upon it would have reached the other side.
However, it turned out for the best, and here we are again, and I
believe that we shall somehow get through after all. Ney always has good
luck. There is never any hesitation about him. He sees what has to be
done and does it. That is the sort of man for a leader. I would rather
serve under a man who does what he thinks best at once, even if it turns
out wrong, than one who hesitates and wants time to consider. Ney has
been called 'the child of victory,' and I believe in his star. Anyone
else would have surrendered after that fight yesterday, and yet you see
how he has got out of the scrape so far. I believe that Ney will cross
the frontier safe, even if he carries with him only a corporal's guard."</p>
<p>Julian was too exhausted to talk, and every moment of rest was precious.
Therefore, after smoking for a short time, he lay down to sleep. At
daybreak the next morning the march through the forest continued. When
from time to time they approached its edge, the Cossacks could be seen
hovering thickly on the plain; but they dared not venture into the wood,
which was so close that their horses would be worse than useless to
them. At three o'clock, when within twenty miles of Orsza, two Polish
officers volunteered to push ahead to that town on some peasant's horses
that had been brought from the village where they had slept to acquaint
the commander of any French force that might be there with their
situation, and to pray for assistance. After a halt of an hour the
column pushed on again. When they had marched another twelve miles the
forest ceased. Night had long since fallen, and a thick fog hung over
the ground. This served to hide their movements, but rendered it
difficult in the extreme for them to maintain the right direction.</p>
<p>Their way led over a steep hill, which was climbed with great
difficulty by the exhausted troops; but on reaching the summit they saw
to their horror a long line of bivouac fires illuminating the plain in
front of them. Even the most sanguine felt despair for a moment. Ney
himself stood for a few minutes speechless, then he turned to his men.</p>
<p>"There is but one thing to do, comrades," he said. "It is death to stay
here. Better a thousand times meet it as soldiers. Let us advance in
absolute silence, and then rush upon our enemies and strive to burst our
way through. They cannot know that we are so near, and, aided by the
surprise, we may force a passage. If we fail, we will, before we die,
sell our lives so dearly that our enemies will long bear us in
remembrance."</p>
<p>In silence the column marched down the hill. No sound proclaimed that
the enemy had taken the alarm. When within charging distance, the line
levelled its bayonets and rushed forward to the fires. To their
stupefaction and relief, they found no foe to oppose them. The fires had
been lighted by order of the Cossack general to make them believe that
an army lay between them and Orsza, and so cause them to arrest their
march. Half an hour was given to the men to warm themselves by the
fires, then the march was resumed. Three miles further the sound of a
large body of men was heard, then came a challenge in French, "<i>Qui
vive!</i>" A hoarse shout of delight burst from the weary force, and a
minute later they were shaking hands with their comrades of Davoust's
division. The Polish messengers had, in spite of the numerous Cossacks
on the plains, succeeded in reaching Orsza safely. The most poignant
anxiety reigned there as to the safety of Ney's command; and Davoust, on
hearing the welcome news, instantly called his men under arms and
advanced to meet them.</p>
<p>The delight on both sides was extreme, and Ney's soldiers were supplied
with food that Davoust had ordered his men to put in their haversacks. A
halt of three or four hours was ordered, for the column had been
marching for eighteen hours, and could go no further. At daybreak they
completed the remaining eight miles into Orsza. Napoleon himself was
there. Here they rested for five days. Food was abundant, and arms were
distributed to those who needed them. Ammunition was served out, and
Napoleon employed himself with great energy in reorganizing his forces
and in distributing the stragglers,—who were almost as numerous as
those with the standards,—among them. Ney's corps was now too small for
separate service, and henceforth was united to that of Davoust. The halt
did wonders for the men. They were billeted among the houses of the
town, and warmth and abundant food revived their strength. They looked
forward with some confidence to reaching the spot where great magazines
had been prepared, and where they would take up their quarters until the
campaign recommenced in the spring.</p>
<p>Napoleon's plans, however, were all frustrated by the inconceivable
blunders and follies of the generals, to whom were entrusted the task of
carrying them out. Everywhere, in turn, they suffered themselves to be
deceived and caught napping. The important positions entrusted to them
were wrested from their hands. Minsk, where there were supplies for the
whole army for months, had been captured, and now Borizow, where the
passage of the Berezina was to be made, was captured almost without
resistance. Well might Napoleon when he heard the news exclaim in
despair:</p>
<p>"Will there never be an end to this blundering?"</p>
<p>Great as the cold had been before, it increased day by day in severity.
Happily for the French, Kutusow, with the main Russian army, was far in
their rear, and they might well hope, when joined by Victor, who was to
meet them near the Berezina with his division, to be able to defeat the
two Russian armies that barred their way, either force being inferior to
their own.</p>
<p>Stephanie had borne the march wonderfully well. Since leaving Smolensk,
she had had no walking to do. The cold was so great that she was glad to
remain during the day snuggled up beneath Julian's cloak. The marching
songs had ceased. Hunted as they were, silence was imperative, and
indeed the distances traversed and the hardships endured were so great
that even Julian felt that he had no longer strength to raise his voice.
Few words indeed were spoken on the march, for the bitter cold seemed to
render talking almost impossible.</p>
<p>Being in ignorance of the forces concentrating to cut him off, Napoleon
ordered Oudinot's corps to march forward to secure the passage at
Borizow, and Victor that at Studenski, but Tchichagow arrived at Borizow
before Oudinot, and began to cross the bridge there. Oudinot, however,
fell upon him fiercely before his whole army had passed over, and the
Russians drew back across the bridge, destroying it behind them.
Napoleon on his arrival found the Russian army of the Danube drawn up on
the opposite bank ready to dispute his passage. He at once sent bodies
of troops up and down the river to deceive the Russian admiral as to the
point at which he intended to force a passage. Victor had already come
in contact with Wittgenstein and had fought a drawn battle with him, and
now moved to join Napoleon at the spot decided upon for the passage of
the Berezina, near Studenski.</p>
<p>On the evening of the 25th of November Napoleon arrived there with
Oudinot's corps. The engineers immediately commenced the construction of
two bridges, and the cavalry and light infantry crossed the river to
reconnoitre the enemy, and some batteries were established to cover the
work. Materials were very scarce, and it was not until noon on the
following day that the bridges were reported practicable. Oudinot's
corps crossed at once, but the rest of the troops passed over in great
confusion, which was increased by the frequent breaking down of the
bridges. Victor took up a position to cover the rear, but one of his
divisions was cut off by Wittgenstein, and eight thousand men forced to
surrender. The main body of the French army, completely panic-stricken
by the thunder of guns in their rear, crowded down in a confused mass.
The passage was frequently arrested by fresh breakages in the bridges;
hundreds were pushed off into the river by the pressure from behind;
others attempted to swim across, but few of these succeeded in gaining
the opposite bank, the rest being overpowered by the cold or overwhelmed
by the floating masses of ice. Thousands perished by drowning. By the
28th the greater part of the French army had crossed, Victor's corps
covering the passage and repulsing the efforts of Wittgenstein up to
that time; then being unable to hold the Russians at bay any longer he
marched down to the bridge, forcing a way through the helpless crowd
that still blocked the approaches.</p>
<p>Altogether the loss of the French amounted to 28,000 men, of whom 16,000
were taken prisoners.</p>
<p>On the same day Tchichagow attacked in front with his army, but,
animated by Napoleon's presence, and by despair, the French fought so
fiercely that he was repulsed with much loss, and the way lay open to
Wilna. The intensity of the cold increased daily, and the sufferings of
the army were proportionately great. On the 5th of December Napoleon
handed over the wreck of the army, now reduced to 45,000 men, to Murat;
while the Viceroy was to have the chief command of the infantry.</p>
<p>By the time they reached the Berezina, Davoust's corps had been
diminished to a few thousand men, and on Victor taking the post of
rear-guard, they were relieved from that arduous task, and were among
the first who crossed the fatal bridge. From there to Wilna there was
comparatively little fighting. Kutusow's army was still far behind, and
although Wittgenstein and the Admiral hung on their rear, the French
army still inspired sufficient respect to deter them from attacking it
in force.</p>
<p>As the army approached the Berezina, scarce a hundred men of the
Grenadiers of the Rhone still hung together, and these were so feeble
that they staggered rather than marched along. Rations had ceased to be
issued, and the troops depended solely upon the flesh of the horses of
the waggons conveying the military chests, treasure, and artillery, and
from what they could gather in the deserted villages. So desperate were
they now that even the fear of falling into the hands of the peasants
was insufficient to deter them from turning off, whenever a village
appeared in sight, in the hope of finding food, or, if that failed, at
least a few hours' shelter. Not one of them was in such good condition
as Julian, who had been sustained not only by his naturally high
spirits, but by the prattle of the child, and by the added warmth of her
sleeping close to him at night.</p>
<p>She now, for the most part, trotted beside him, and it was only when
very tired that the child would allow him to take her up. She herself
had never been short of food, for however small the portion obtained,
enough for her was always set aside before it was touched. One day
Julian had, with some of his comrades, entered a village. The others had
insisted on lying down for a sleep, after devouring a little food they
were fortunate enough to find in one of the houses. Julian's efforts to
induce them to continue the march were in vain. They lighted a huge fire
on a hearth with wood obtained by breaking up some of the doors, and
declared that they would be warm for once, whatever came of it. The
column was already some distance off, and night was closing in. Julian
therefore started alone. He was carrying the child now, and for an hour
he kept on his way. Still there were no signs of a road, and he at last
became convinced that he must have gone in the wrong direction. He
walked for half an hour longer, and then coming upon a small hut, he at
once determined to pass the night there.</p>
<p>Laying the sleeping child down, he covered her over with his cloak. Then
he broke up some woodwork, cut a portion of it into small pieces, mixed
the contents of a cartridge with a little snow and placed it among them,
and then drew the charge from his musket, put a little powder into it,
and discharged it into the heap. In a few minutes a bright fire was
blazing, and taking the child in his arms, he lay down before it, and
was soon asleep. He was awakened some time afterwards by a strange
noise. He sprang up at once, threw some fresh wood on the embers, and,
grasping his musket, stood listening. In a minute the noise was renewed;
something was scratching at the door, and a moment later he heard a
pattering of feet overhead. Then came a low whimper and a snarl, and the
truth at once rushed upon him. He was surrounded by wolves.</p>
<p>For a long time the march of the army had been accompanied by these
creatures. Driven from the forest by cold and hunger, and scenting blood
from afar, they had hung upon the skirts of the army, feasting on the
bones of the horses and the bodies of the dead. Julian examined the
door. It was a strong one, and there was no fear of their making an
entry there. The roof, too, seemed solid; and the window, which was
without glass, had a heavy wooden shutter. Hoping that by morning the
wolves, finding that they could not enter, would make off, Julian lay
down by the fire again, and slept for some hours. When he woke daylight
was streaming in through a crack in the shutter. On looking through this
and through the chinks of the door, he saw to his dismay that the wolves
were still there. Some were sitting watching the house; others were
prowling about. It was clear that they had no intention whatever of
leaving. The child had been roused by his movements.</p>
<p>"Stephanie wants breakfast," she said decidedly, as he broke up some
more wood and rekindled the fire.</p>
<p>"I am afraid, dear, you will have to wait," he said. "I have not got any
to give you."</p>
<p>"Let us go and get some," she said, standing up.</p>
<p>"I would, Stephanie; but there are some wolves outside, and we can't go
until they move."</p>
<p>"Wolves are bad beasts. Stephanie was out riding in the sleigh with
papa, when they came out from a wood and ran after us, and they would
have killed us if the horses had not been very fast. Papa shot some of
them, but the others did not seem to mind, and were close behind when we
got home, where the men came out with forks and axes, and then they ran
away. Stephanie will wait for her breakfast."</p>
<p>Julian thought for some time, and, then going to the window, opened the
shutters and began to fire at the wolves. Several were killed. They were
at once torn to pieces by their companions, who then withdrew to a safe
distance, and sat down to watch. Julian had not even hoped that it would
be otherwise. Had he waited, it was possible that they would at last
leave the hut and go off in the track of the army; but even in that
case, he would not, he felt, be able to overtake it alone, for, weak as
he was, he felt unequal to any great exertion, and he and his charge
might be devoured by these or other wolves, long before he came up with
the column, or they might be killed by Cossacks or by peasants. The last
were the most merciless enemies, for death at their hands would be
slower and more painful than at the hands of the wolves, but at least
the child might be saved, and it was in hopes of attracting attention
that he opened fire. He continued therefore to discharge his gun at
intervals, and to his great satisfaction saw in the afternoon a number
of peasants approaching. The wolves at once made off.</p>
<p>"Stephanie," he said, "there are some of your people coming. They will
soon be here, and you must tell them who you are, and ask them to send
you to your father, and tell them that he will give them lots of money
for bringing you back to him."</p>
<p>"Yes," the child said, "and he will thank you very, very much for having
been so good to me."</p>
<p>"I am afraid, Stephanie, that I shall not go back with you. The people
kill the French whenever they take them."</p>
<p>"But you are not French; you are English," she said, indignantly.
"Besides, the French are not all bad; they were very good to me."</p>
<p>"I am afraid, dear, that it will make very little difference to them my
being an Englishman. They will see that I am in French uniform, and will
regard me as an enemy just as if I were French."</p>
<p>"I will not let them hurt you," she said sturdily. "They are serfs, and
when I tell them who I am they will obey me, for if they don't I will
tell them that my father will have them all flogged to death."</p>
<p>"Don't do that, dear. You are a long way from your father's house, and
they may not know his name; so do not talk about flogging, but only
about the money they will get if they take you back. They are poor men,
they have had a great deal to suffer, and have been made very savage; so
it is best for you to speak kindly and softly to them. Now, dear, let us
turn down that collar, so that they can see your face, and take your
things off your head, and then go out and speak to them. They are close
here."</p>
<p>The child did as he told her, and as he opened the door she stepped out.
The peasants, who were only some twenty yards away, stopped in surprise
at the appearance of the strange little figure before them. Her golden
hair fell over her shoulders, and the long loose jacket concealed the
rest of her person. She spoke to them in Russian, in a high, clear
voice:</p>
<p>"I am the Countess Stephanie Woronski. I am glad to see you. I was
travelling to go to my father, when there was an accident, and my nurse
and the coachman were both killed; and I should have died too, but a
good man—an Englishman—took me up, and he has carried me many days,
and has fed me and kept me warm and been my nurse. He must go with me
back to my father; and my father will give you lots of money for taking
us both to him, and you must remember that he is an Englishman and not a
Frenchman, although somehow he has been obliged to go with their army;
and he is very, very good."</p>
<p>All this time Julian was standing behind her, musket in hand, determined
to sell his life dearly. The peasants stood irresolute; they conferred
together; then one of them advanced, and took off his fur cap and bowed
to the child.</p>
<p>"Little mistress," he said, "we are but peasants, and do not know the
name of your honoured father; but assuredly we will take you to our
village, and our priest will find out where he lives, and will take you
home to him; but this man with you is a Frenchman, and an enemy."</p>
<p>The child stamped her foot angrily. "Pig of a man!" she exclaimed
passionately, "Do I, then, lie? I tell you he is English. I have a
French coat on, just as he has. Will you say next that I am a French
girl? I tell you that my friend must come with me, and that when I come
to my father he will give you much money. He is a friend of the Czar,
and if I tell him that you have hurt my friend, he and the Czar will
both be angry."</p>
<p>A murmur broke from the group of peasants. The anger of the Czar was, of
all things, the most terrible. Doubtless this imperious, little countess
was a great lady, and their habitual habit of subservience to the nobles
at once asserted itself, and, while they had hesitated before, the
threat of the Czar's anger completed their subjugation.</p>
<p class="center">
<ANTIMG src="images/illus011.jpg" alt="woronski" />
<SPAN id="illus011" name="illus011"></SPAN></p>
<p class='center'>"I AM THE COUNTESS STEPHANIE WORONSKI. I AM GLAD TO SEE
YOU."</p>
<p>"It shall be as the little mistress wills it," the peasant said humbly.
"No harm shall be done to your friend. We cannot promise that the troops
will not take him away from us, but if they do not he shall go with you
when we find where your father lives. If he has saved your life, he must
be, as you say, a good man, and we will take care of him."</p>
<p>"They will take care of you," the child said in French, turning to
Julian. "I told them that my father would reward them, and that the Czar
would be very angry with them if they hurt you; and so they have
promised to take you with me to him."</p>
<p>Julian at once placed his gun against the wall, and, taking her hand,
walked forward to the peasants.</p>
<p>"Tell them," he said, "that the English are the friends of Russia, and
that there are some English officers now with their army, for I have
several times seen scarlet uniforms among the Russian staff."</p>
<p>The child repeated this to the peasants. One of them went into the hut,
and looked round; and then securing Julian's musket, rejoined the
others, who at once started across the snow, one of the party carrying
Stephanie. On her telling them that she was hungry, some black bread was
produced. She gave the first piece handed her to Julian, and then sat
contentedly munching another. The peasants had now come to the
conclusion that the capture would bring good fortune to them, and one of
them took from the pocket of his sheep-skin caftan a bottle, which he
handed to Julian. The latter took a drink that caused him to cough
violently, to the amusement of the peasants, for it was <i>vodka</i>, and the
strong spirit took his breath away after his long abstinence from
anything but water. It did him good, however, and seemed to send a glow
through every limb, enabling him to keep pace with the peasants. Their
course lay north, and after four hours' walking they arrived at a
good-sized village at the edge of a forest.</p>
<p>Their arrival created much excitement. There was a hubbub of talk, and
then they were taken into the largest house in the village. Stephanie,
who had been asleep for some time, woke up; and Julian threw aside his
cloak, for the close heat of the interior was almost overpowering. A
very old man, the father of the families that occupied the house,—for
in Russia married sons all share the houses of their parents,—made a
deep bow to Stephanie, and placed a low seat for her before the stove.
Julian helped her off with her jacket and her other encumbrances, and
her appearance in a pretty dress evidently increased the respect in
which she was held by the peasants. In a short time bowls of hot broth
were placed before them, and, weak as was the liquor, both enjoyed it
immensely after their monotonous diet of horse-flesh. Then Stephanie was
given a corner on the cushion placed on a wide shelf running round the
apartment. The place next to her was assigned to Julian, who, after
swallowing another glass of vodka, was in a few minutes sound asleep,
with a sweet consciousness of rest and security to which he had long
been a stranger.</p>
<p>In the morning there was a gathering composed of the papa or priest of
the village and the principal men. When it was concluded, Stephanie was
informed that none of them knew the place of residence of her father,
but that a messenger had been sent off to the nearest town with a letter
from the priest to the bishop there, asking him to inform them of it.
She was asked how many days had passed since she had fallen in with the
French, and how long she had been travelling before she did so. Julian
was able to say exactly where he had fallen in with her—about thirty
miles from Smolensk. Stephanie herself was vague as to the time she had
travelled before the accident to the carriage, "days and days" being the
only account that she could give of the matter. The priest then spoke to
her for some time in Russian.</p>
<p>"They want you," she said to Julian, "to take off your uniform and to
put on clothes like theirs. They say that though they wish to take you
with me to my father, they might on the way fall in with other people or
with soldiers, who would not know how good you are, and might take you
away from them and kill you, so that it would be safer for you to travel
in Russian dress. You won't mind that, will you?"</p>
<p>"Not at all, Stephanie; I think that it is a very good plan indeed."</p>
<p>A quarter of an hour later Julian was equipped in the attire of a
well-to-do peasant, with caftan lined with sheep-skin, a round fur cap,
a thick pair of trousers of a dark rough cloth, bandages of the same
material round the leg from the knee to the ankle, and high loose boots
of untanned leather with the hair inside. The transformation greatly
pleased the peasants, whose hatred of the French uniform had hitherto
caused them to stand aloof from him, and they now patted him on the
shoulder, shook his hand, and drank glasses of <i>vodka</i>, evidently to his
health, with great heartiness. Julian could, as yet, scarcely believe
that all this was not a dream. From the day that he had crossed the
Niemen he had been filled with gloomy forebodings of disaster, and
sickened by the barbarities of the soldiers upon the people, while,
during the retreat, he had been exposed to constant hardship, engaged in
innumerable fights and skirmishes, and impressed with the firm belief
that not a Frenchman would ever cross the frontier save as a prisoner.
After this the sense of warmth, the abundance of food, and the absence
of any necessity for exertion seemed almost overpowering, and for the
next three or four days he passed no small proportion of his time in
sleep.</p>
<p>Stephanie was quite in her element. She was treated like a little queen
by the villagers, who considered her presence among them a high honour
as well as a source of future reward. They were never weary of
listening to the details of her stay among the French, and accorded to
Julian a good deal of deference both for the kindness he had shown the
little countess and for the service that he had thereby rendered to
themselves. It was ten days before an answer was received as to the
count's estates. They lay, it said, far to the south, but the bishop was
of opinion that the little countess had better be sent to St.
Petersburg, as the count had a palace there, and would be certain to be
at the capital at the present juncture of affairs. He offered that, if
they would bring her to him, he would see that she was sent on thither
by a post-carriage, but that in view of the extreme cold it would be
better that she should not be forwarded until the spring.</p>
<p>A village council was held on the receipt of this letter, and the
proposal that she should be sent by the bishop was unanimously
negatived. It seemed to the villagers that in such a case the glory of
restoring Stephanie to her parents, and the reward that would naturally
accrue from it, would not fall to them; but, at the same time, no
alternative method occurred to them. Finally, after much consultation,
Stephanie was asked to interpret the bishop's letter to Julian, and when
she had done so she was told to add: "They think, Julian, that if they
send us to the bishop papa will not know that it was they who found me
and took care of me."</p>
<p>Julian understood the difficulty. He first inquired how much the village
could raise to pay for the expenses of a post-carriage to St.
Petersburg. He said that it would, of course, be only a loan, and would
be repaid by the count. This led to a considerable amount of discussion,
but the difficulty was much diminished when Julian said that he could
himself supply five napoleons towards the fund. It had been decided that
three times that amount would be required to pay all expenses of travel,
and the priest agreeing to contribute an equal amount to Julian's, the
remaining sum was speedily made up. It was then arranged that the
priest would himself go to Borizow and obtain the <i>podorojna</i> or order
for the supply of post-horses at the various stations. He would have to
name those who would accompany him. The head man of the village was
unanimously elected to go with him, and after some talk it was settled
that Julian should be put down as Ivan Meriloff, as a foreign name would
excite suspicion and cause much trouble, and possibly he might be
detained as a prisoner, in which case the peasants saw that there would
be considerable difficulty in inducing the little countess to go with
them. The priest was absent three days, and then returned with the
necessary document authorizing him to start from Borizow in four days'
time. Julian was sorry when the time came for his departure. After four
months of incessant hardship and fatigue, the feeling of rest and
comfort was delightful. He had been more weakened than he was aware of
by want of food, and, as his strength came back to him, he felt like one
recovering from a long illness, ready to enjoy the good things of life
fully, to bask in the heat of the stove, and to eat his meals with a
sense of real enjoyment.</p>
<p>Rumours had come in every day of the terrible sufferings of the French
as they were hotly pressed by the triumphant Russians, and of the
general belief that but few would survive to cross the Niemen. Still,
while the French were thus suffering the Russians were in but little
better plight, following, as they did, through a country that had been
swept bare of everything that could be burned by the retreating French.
Their sufferings from cold were terrible, 90,000 perished, and out of
10,000 recruits, who afterwards marched for Wilna, as a reinforcement,
only 1500 reached that city, and the greater portion of these had at
once to be taken to the hospital mutilated from frost-bite. Thus, then,
the number of Russians that perished was at least as great as that of
their harassed foes, and this in their own climate, and without the
necessity for the constant vigilance, that had assisted to break down
the retreating army.</p>
<p>Julian was instructed in the Russian words to reply if asked by any of
the postmasters whether he was the Ivan Meriloff mentioned in the
passport, and, on the day after the return of the priest, they started
in a sledge filled with hay and covered with sheep-skins.</p>
<p>Julian with Stephanie were nestled up in the hay at one end of the
sledge, the two Russians at the other. On reaching Borizow they stopped
at the post-house, and on producing the <i>podorojna</i> were told that the
carriage and horses would be ready in half an hour. They had brought a
considerable amount of provisions with them, and now laid in a stock of
such articles as could not be procured in the villages. When the
post-carriage came round, a large proportion of the hay in the sledge
was transferred to it, together with the sheep-skins. There was no
luggage, and four horses were deemed sufficient. The wheels had, of
course, been taken off the vehicle, and it was placed on runners. The
driver climbed up to his seat, cracked his whip furiously, and the
horses started at a gallop. The motion was swift and pleasant, indeed
travelling in Russia is much more agreeable in winter than in summer,
for the roads, which in summer are often detestable, are in winter as
smooth as glass, over which the sledge glides with a scarce perceptible
movement, and the journeys are performed much more rapidly than in
summer.</p>
<p>The distance between the post-houses varied considerably, being
sometimes only nine miles apart, sometimes as many as twenty, but they
were generally performed at a gallop, the priest, at Julian's
suggestion, always giving somewhat more than the usual drink-money to
the driver, and in five days from the time of their leaving Borizow they
arrived at St. Petersburg, halting only for a few hours each night at
post-houses. They had no difficulty in ascertaining where the Woronski
palace was situated, and, taking a <i>droski</i>, drove there at once.
Stephanie clapped her hands as she saw it.</p>
<p>"You ought to have put on your cloak, Julian, and to have packed me up
under it as you used to carry me, and to take me in like that."</p>
<p>"I am afraid that grand-looking personage at the door would not have let
me in. As it is, he is looking at us with the greatest contempt."</p>
<p>"That is Peter," the child said. "Peter, Peter, what are you standing
staring for? Why don't you come and help me down as usual?"</p>
<p>The porter, a huge man with a great beard, and wearing a fur cap and a
long fur-trimmed pelisse, almost staggered back as the child spoke. He
had, as Julian said, been regarding the <i>droski</i> and its load with an
air of supreme contempt, and had been about to demand angrily why it
ventured to drive up into the courtyard of the palace. He stood
immovable until Stephanie threw back her sheep-skin hood, then, with a
loud cry, he sprang down the steps, dashed his fur cap to the ground,
threw himself on his knees, and taking the child's hand in his, pressed
it to his forehead. The tears streamed down his cheeks, as he sobbed
out, "My little mistress, my little mistress! and you have come back
again to be the light of our hearts—oh, what a joyful day is this!"</p>
<p>"Thank you, Peter. Now, please lift me down. I am quite well. Are papa
and mamma well?"</p>
<p>"The gracious countess is not well, little mistress, but when she knows
that you are back, she will soon regain her health. His excellency, your
father, is not ill, but he is sorely troubled. He has been away for a
fortnight searching for news of you, and returned but last week. I don't
know what his news was, but it was bad, for the countess has been worse
since he returned."</p>
<p>"This gentleman has told me, Peter, that I must not run in to see them
without their being told first that I am safe, and that you had better
fetch Papa Serge. This is the English gentleman, Peter, who saved my
life when I was almost dead with cold, and carried me for days and days
under his cloak, and kept me warm close to him when we lay down in the
snow at night."</p>
<p>Again the Russian fell on his knees, and seizing Julian's hand, put it
to his forehead. Then he jumped up, "Why am I keeping you out in the
cold?" he said. "Come in, little mistress, and I will send to fetch the
papa."</p>
<p>"Cover up your head, Stephanie," Julian said as, holding his hand
tightly, they entered the hall together. "If others were to see you the
news would run through the house like wildfire, and it would come to
your mother's ears before it had been broken to her. Tell Peter to take
us into a quiet room, and not to inform the man he sends to the priest
that you are here."</p>
<p>Followed by the village priest and the peasant they entered a room
fitted as a library.</p>
<p>"It is here papa writes his letters," Stephanie said, throwing back her
hood again and taking off her cloak; "isn't it nice and warm?"</p>
<p>Coming in from the temperature of some forty degrees below freezing, it
was to Julian most uncomfortably warm. It was some four or five minutes
before the door opened, and Papa Serge, the family chaplain, entered
with a somewhat bewildered face, for he had been almost forcibly dragged
down by Peter, who had refused to give any explanation for the urgency
of his demand that he should accompany him instantly to the count's
study. When his eyes fell on Stephanie, who had started up as he
entered, he gave a cry of joy. A moment later she sprang into his arms.</p>
<p>"Dear, dear, Papa Serge!" she said, as she kissed his withered cheeks
warmly. "Oh I do love to be home again, though I have been very happy,
and everyone has been very kind to me. Now, you mustn't stay here,
because I want to see papa and mamma; and this gentleman says—he is my
great friend, you know, and I call him Nurse Julian—that you must go
and tell them first that I have come, and that you must tell them very
gently, so that it won't upset poor mamma."</p>
<p>"Tell him, Stephanie, that he had better say at first only that someone
has just come with the news that you are quite safe, and that you will
be here soon, and then after a little while, he had better call your
father out and tell him the truth. By the way, ask if they are together
now."</p>
<p>The child put the question.</p>
<p>"No, the countess is in bed and the count is walking up and down the
great drawing-room. He does it for hours at a time."</p>
<p>"In that case, Stephanie, tell Serge to speak first to your father, and
to bring him down here to you. He will break it to your mother better
than anyone else would do."</p>
<p>The priest was too deeply moved to speak, but upon Stephanie translating
what Julian had said, put her down and left the room. As soon as he had
done so the priest who had travelled with them, and who, with his
companion, had been standing in an attitude of respect while Stephanie
was speaking, said to her:</p>
<p>"Little countess, we will go out into the hall and wait there. It were
better that his excellency, your father, should meet you here alone."</p>
<p>"He would not mind," Stephanie said, "but if you think that you had
better go, please do."</p>
<p>The two peasants left the room somewhat hastily. They had been
absolutely awed at the splendour of the house, which vastly surpassed
anything they had ever imagined, and were glad to make an excuse to
leave the room and so avoid seeing the count until his daughter had
explained the reason of their presence there. Julian guessed their
reason for leaving and was about to follow them when Stephanie took him
by the hand.</p>
<p>"No," she said, "you are not to go, Julian. It is you who saved my life,
and it is you who must give me back to papa." A few minutes elapsed,
then the door was suddenly thrown open and the count ran in.</p>
<p>"My Stephanie! my little Stephanie!" he cried, as he caught her up. "Oh,
my little girl! we never thought to see you again—it seems a miracle
from heaven. Do not cry, darling," he said presently, as she lay sobbing
with her head on his shoulder. "It is all over now, and you will come to
think of it in time as a bad dream."</p>
<p>"Not a <i>very</i> bad one, papa. It has been funny and strange, but not bad.
Oh, and I meant this gentleman—he is an English gentleman, papa—to
have put me into your arms, only somehow I forgot all about it when you
came in. I call him Nurse Julian, papa, because he has been my nurse. He
has carried me for days and days on his back under his warm cloak, and I
have slept curled up in his arms; and sometimes there were battles. Oh,
such a noise they made! When it was a big battle he stowed me away in a
waggon, but sometimes when it was a small one, and he had not time to
take me to the waggon, he carried me on his back, and I used to jump at
first when he fired his gun, but I soon got accustomed to it, and he
always got me plenty of food, though it was not very nice. But he didn't
often get enough, and he became very thin and pale, and then I used
sometimes to run along by his side for a bit, and I only let him carry
me when I was very tired, and at last we were in a little hut by
ourselves, and some peasants came. They looked very wicked at first, but
I told them who I was, and that you would give them money if they
brought me back to you, and so we went to their village and stayed
there, and it was warm and nice, and there was plenty of food, and dear
Julian got strong again, and then they brought us here in a
post-carriage, and two of them came with me. They are out in the hall
now."</p>
<p>The count set his little daughter down, and coming up to Julian threw
his arms round his neck and kissed him in Russian fashion. "My
benefactor!" he exclaimed, "I don't understand all that Stephanie has
told me, but it is enough that you saved her life, and that you nursed
her with the tenderness of a mother, and have restored her to us as one
from the grave. Never can I fully express my thanks or prove my
gratitude to you, but now you will, I trust, excuse me. I am burning to
carry the news of our dear one's return to her mother, whose condition
is giving us grave anxiety. She is far too weak to stand any sudden
shock, and I will merely tell her now that news has come that a little
girl whose description corresponds with that of Stephanie has been found
and is on her way here, and may arrive very shortly. More than that I
shall not venture upon to-day, unless, indeed, I find that the
excitement and suspense is likely to be even more injurious to her than
the state of dull despair in which she now lies. If I see that it is so
I must go on, little by little, till she guesses the truth. Now,
Stephanie, you had better come up to your own room. Of course, your
friend will come with you," he added with a smile as Stephanie took
Julian's hand. "But you had better wait three or four minutes so that I
may give strict orders to the household that everything is to be kept
perfectly quiet, and that not a sound is to be heard in the house. There
will be time enough for rejoicings afterwards."</p>
<p>The count, who was a handsome man some thirty years old, now left the
room. He paused in the hall for a minute, shook the priest and his
companion warmly by the hand, and assured them that they should be
handsomely rewarded for the kindness they had shown to his daughter,
and then after speaking to Peter he ran lightly upstairs to his wife's
room. Stephanie waited for about five minutes and then said:</p>
<p>"I should think that papa has had time to give the orders. Now, Julian,
shall we go?"</p>
<p>"Yes, dear, I think we might do so."</p>
<p>On going out into the hall a singular spectacle presented itself. The
grand staircase was lined on each side with kneeling men and women.
There was a sound of suppressed sobbing, and a low murmur was heard as
Stephanie appeared.</p>
<p>"Go first, Stephanie dear," Julian said in a low voice; "they want to
kiss your hands."</p>
<p>Stephanie showed no shyness, for, stopping on each step, she held out
her hands to the kneeling figures, who murmured prayers and blessings.
As they kissed them, she said softly to each, "Thank you very much, but
I must not talk now. This gentleman is my friend. It is he who saved my
life, and nursed me, and carried me. You must all love him for my sake,"
whereupon, as Julian followed her, he met with a reception similar to
that given to their young mistress. He was glad when at last they
reached the top of the stairs and Stephanie led the way into her own
room, which was a sort of glorified nursery. Here two or three maids
were laying a table, and as the door closed behind him they crowded
round her and by turns kissed and hugged her. Then an old woman, who had
sat apart until the girls had had their turn, came forward. She placed
her hands solemnly on the child's head:</p>
<p>"May the great Father bless you, my child. I have seen many glad days
since I entered the service of your house sixty years ago. I was present
at your grandfather's wedding, and your father's, but never was there so
bright and happy a day as this, which but half an hour ago was so dark
and sad. It was but three days ago that the whole household went into
mourning for you, for the news your father brought home seemed to show
that all hope was at an end. In five minutes all this has changed. You
see the maids have got on their festive dresses, and I will warrant me
they never changed their things so rapidly before. Now we have but to
get your beloved mother strong again, which, please God, will not be
long, and then this will be the happiest house in all Russia."</p>
<p>"This is my nurse, my new nurse, Elizabeth. His name is Julian, and he
is an English gentleman, as you will see better when he gets some nice
clothes on. He has carried me days and days across the snow, and kept me
warm by night and day, and done everything for me. He doesn't speak
Russian, but he can speak French, and so, of course, we got on very
nicely; and I have been in battles, Elizabeth, think of that! and I was
not afraid a bit, and I was quite happy all the time, only, of course, I
am very, very glad to get home again."</p>
<p>The meal was now laid, and Julian and the child sat down to it with a
vigorous appetite. Their food while in the village had been coarse
though plentiful, and Julian especially appreciated the delicate flavour
and perfect cooking of the many dishes of whose names and contents he
was absolutely ignorant. An hour after they had finished, the count came
in.</p>
<p>"Your mother has borne it better than I expected, Stephanie," he said.
"I have been able to break the news to her sooner than I expected. Come
with me; be very quiet and do not talk much. She will be well content to
have you lying quietly in her arms." So saying, he lifted her and
carried her off, saying to Julian, "I will return and have the pleasure
of a talk with you after I have left Stephanie with her mother."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />