From this hour Valmond was carried on by a wave of fortune. Before vespers on that Sunday night, it was common talk that he was a true son of the Great Napoleon, born at St. Helena.
Why did he come to Pontiac? He wished to be in retirement till his friends, acting for him in France, gave him the signal, and then with a small army of French-Canadians he would land in France. Thousands would gather round his standard, and so marching on to Paris, the Napoleonic faith would be revived, and he would come into his own. It is possible that these stories might have been traced to Parpon, but he had covered up his trail so well that no one followed him.
On that Sunday night, young men and old flocked into Valmond’s chambers at the Louis Quinze, shook hands with him, addressing him as “Your Excellency” or “Your Highness.” He maintained towards them a mysterious yet kindly reserve, singularly effective. They inspected the martial furnishing of the room: the drum, the pair of rifles, the pistols, in the corner, the sabres crossed on the wall, the gold-handled sword that lay upon the table, and the picture of Napoleon on a white horse against the wall. Tobacco and wine were set upon a side table, and every man as he passed out took a glass of wine and enough tobacco for his pipe, and said: “Of grace, your health, monseigneur!”
There were those who scoffed, who from natural habit disbelieved, and nodded knowingly, and whispered in each other’s ears; but these were in the minority; and all the women and children declared for this new “Man of Destiny.” And when some foolish body asked him for a lock of his hair, and old Madame Degardy (crazy Joan, as she was called) followed, offering him a pinch of snuff, and a lad appeared with a bunch of violets from Madame Chalice, the dissentients were cast in shadow, and had no longer courage to doubt.
Madame Chalice had been merely whimsical in sending these violets, which her gardener had brought her that very morning.
“It will help along the pretty farce,” she had said to herself; and then she sat her down to read Napoleon’s letters to Josephine, and to wonder that a woman could have been faithless and vile with such a man. Her blood raced indignantly in her veins as she thought of it. She admired intellect, supremacy, the gifts of temperament, deeds of war and adventure beyond all. As yet her brain was stronger than her feelings; there had been no breakers of emotion in her life. A wife, she had no child; the mother in her was spent upon her husband, whose devotion, honour, name, and goodness were dear to her. Yet—yet she had a world of her own; and reading Napoleon’s impassioned letters to his wife, written with how great homage! in the flow of the tide washing to famous battle-fields, an exultation of ambition inspired her, and the genius of her distinguished ancestors set her heart beating hard. Presently, her face alive with feeling, a furnace in her eyes, she repeated a paragraph from Napoleon’s letters to Josephine:
The enemy have lost, my dearest, eighteen thousand men, prisoners, killed, and wounded. Wurmzer has nothing left but to throw himself into Mantua. I hope soon to be in your arms. I love you to distraction. All is well. Nothing is wanting to your husband’s happiness, save the love of Josephine.
She sprang to her feet. “And she, wife of a hero, was in common intrigue with Hippolyte Charles at the time! She had a conqueror, a splendid adventurer, and coming emperor, for a husband, and she loved him not. I—I could have knelt to him—worshipped him. I”—With a little hysterical, disdainful laugh, as of the soul at itself, she leaned upon the window, looking into the village below, alternately smiling and frowning at the thought of this adventurer down at the Louis Quinze. “Yet, who can tell? Disraeli was half mountebank at the start,” she said. “Napoleon dressed infamously, too, before he was successful.” But again she laughed, as at an absurdity.
During the next few days Valmond was everywhere—kind, liberal, quaint, tireless, at times melancholy; “in the distant perspective of the stage,” as Monsieur De la Riviere remarked mockingly. But a passing member of the legislature met and was conquered by Valmond, and carried on to neighbouring parishes the wondrous tale.
He carried it through Ville Bambord, fifty miles away; and the story of how a Napoleon had come to Pontiac reached the ears of old Sergeant Eustache Lagroin of the Old Guard, who had fought with the Great Emperor at Waterloo, and in his army on twenty other battle-fields. He had been at Fontainebleau when Napoleon bade farewell to the Old Guard, saying: “For twenty years I have ever found you in the path of honour and glory. Adieu, my children! I would I were able to press you all to my heart—but I will at least press your eagle. I go to record the great deeds we have done together.”
When the gossip came to Lagroin, as he sat in his doorway, babbling of Grouchy and Lannes and Davoust, the Little Corporal outflanking them all in his praise, his dim blue eyes flared out from the distant sky of youth and memory, his lips pursed in anger, and he got to his feet, his stick fiercely pounding the ground.
“Tut! tut!” said he. “A lie! a pretty lie! I knew all the Napoleons—Joseph, Lucien, Louis, Jerome, Caroline, Eliza, Pauline—all! I have seen them every one. And their children—pah! Who can deceive me? I will go to Pontiac, I will see to this tomfoolery. I’ll bring the rascal to the drumhead. Does he think there is no one? Pish! I will spit him at the first stroke. Here, here, Manette,” he cried to his grand-daughter; “fetch out my uniform, give it an airing, and see to the buttons. I will show this brag how one of the Old Guard looked at Saint Jean. Quick, Manette, my sabre polish; I’ll clean my musket, and to-morrow I will go to Pontiac. I’ll put the scamp through his facings—but yes! I am eighty, but I have an arm of thirty.” True to his word, the next morning at daybreak he started to walk to Pontiac, accompanied for a mile or so by Manette and a few of the villagers.
“See you, my child,” he said, “I will stay with my niece, Desire Malboir, and her daughter Elise, there in Pontiac. You shall hear how I fetch that vagabond to his potage!”
Valmond had purchased a tolerable white horse through Medallion. After a day’s grooming the beast showed off very well; and he was now seen riding about the parish, dressed after the manner of the First Napoleon, with a cocked hat and a short sword at his side. He rode well, and the silver and pennies he scattered were most fruitful of effect from the martial elevation. He happened to be riding into the village at one end as Sergeant Lagroin entered it at the other, each going towards the Louis Quinze. Valmond knew nothing of Sergeant Lagroin, so that what followed was of the inspiration of the moment. It sprang from his wit, and from his knowledge of Napoleon and the Napoleonic history, a knowledge which had sent Monsieur Garon into tears of joy in his own home, and afterwards off to the Manor House and also to the Seigneury, full of praise of him.
Catching sight of the sergeant, the significance of the thing flashed to his brain, and his course was mapped out on the instant. Sitting very straight, Valmond rode steadily down towards the old soldier. The sergeant had drawn notice as he came up the street, and people came to their doors, and children followed the grey, dust-covered veteran, in his last-century uniform. He came as far as the Louis Quinze, and then, looking on up the road, he saw the white horse, the cocked hat, the white waistcoat, and the long grey coat. He brought his stick down smartly on the ground, drew himself up, squared his shoulders, and said: “Courage, Eustache Lagroin. It is not forty Prussians, but one rogue! Crush him! Down with the pretender!”
So, with a defiant light in his eye, he came on, the old uniform sagging loosely on the shrunken body, which yet was soldier-like from head to foot. Years of camp and discipline and battle and endurance were in the whole bearing of the man. He was no more of Pontiac and this simple life than was Valmond himself.
So they neared each other, the challenger and the challenged, the champion and the invader, and quickly the village emptied itself out to see.
When Valmond came so close that he could observe every detail of the old man’s uniform, he suddenly reined in his horse, drew him back on his haunches with his left hand, and with his right saluted—not the old sergeant, but the coat of the Old Guard, to which his eyes were directed. Mechanically the hand of the sergeant went to his cap, then, starting forward with an angry movement, he seemed as though he would attack Valmond.
Valmond sat very still, his right hand thrust in his bosom, his forehead bent, his eyes calmly, resolutely, yet distantly, looking at the sergeant, who grew suddenly still also, while the people watched and wondered.
As Valmond looked, a soft light passed across his face, relieving its theatrical firmness, the half-contemptuous curl of his lip. He knew well enough that this event would make or unmake him in Pontiac. He became also aware that a carriage had driven up among the villagers, and had stopped; and though he did not look directly, he felt that it was Madame Chalice. This soft look on his face was not all assumed; for the ancient uniform of the sergeant touched something in him, the true comedian, or the true Napoleon, and it seemed as if he might dismount and take the old soldier in his arms.
He set his horse on a little, and paused again, with not more than fifteen feet between them. The sergeant’s brain was going round like a top. It was not he that challenged after all.
“Soldier of the Old Guard,” cried Valmond, in a clear, ringing voice, “how far is it to Friedland?”
Like a machine the veteran’s hand again went up to his cap, and he answered:
“To Friedland—the width of a ditch!”
His voice shook as he said it, and the world to him was all a muddle then; for Napoleon the Great had asked a private this question after that battle on the Alle, when Berningsen, the Russian, threw away an army to the master strategist.
The private had answered the question in the words of Sergeant Lagroin. It was a saying long afterwards among the Old Guard, though it may not be found in the usual histories of that time, where every battalion, almost every company, had a watchword, which passed to make room for others, as victory followed victory.
“Soldier of the Old Guard,” said Valmond again, “how came you by those scars upon your forehead?”
“I was a drummer at Auerstadt, a corporal at Austerlitz, a sergeant at Waterloo,” rolled back the reply, in a high, quavering voice, as memories of great events blew in upon the ancient fires of his spirit.
“Ah!” answered Valmond, nodding eagerly; “with Davoust at Auerstadt—thirty against sixty thousand men. At eight o’clock, all fog and mist, as you marched up the defile towards the Sonnenberg hills, the brave Gudin and his division feeling their way to Blucher. Comrade, how still you stepped, your bayonet thrust out before you, clearing the mists, your eyes straining, your teeth set, ready to thrust. All at once a quick-moving mass sprang out of the haze, and upon you, with hardly a sound of warning; and an army of hussars launched themselves at your bayonets! You bent that wall back like a piece of steel, and broke it. Comrade, that was the beginning, in the mist of morning. Tell me how you fared in the light of evening, at the end of that bloody day.”
The old soldier was trembling. There was no sign, no movement, from the crowd. Across the fields came the sharpening of a scythe, the cry of the grasshoppers, and the sound of a mill-wheel arose near by. In the mill itself, far up in a deep dormer window, sat Parpon with his black cat, looking down upon the scene with a grim smiling.
The sergeant saw that mist fronting Sonnenberg rise up, and show ten thousand splendid cavalry and fifty thousand infantry, with a king and a prince to lead them down upon those malleable but unmoving squares of French infantry. He saw himself drumming the Prussians back and his Frenchmen on.
“Beautiful God!” he cried proudly, “that was a day! And every man of the Third Corps that time lift up the lid of hell and drop a Prussian in. I stand beside Davoust once, and ping! come a bullet, and take off his chapeau. It fell upon my drum. I stoop and pick it up and hand it to him, but I keep drumming with one hand all the time. ‘Comrade,’ say I, ‘the army thanks you for your courtesy.’ ‘Brother,’ he say, ‘twas to your drum,’ and his eye flash out where Gudin carved his way through those pigs of Prussians. ‘I’d take my head off to keep your saddle filled, comrade,’ say I. Ping! come a bullet and catch me in the calf. ‘You hold your head too high, brother,’ the general say, and he smile. ‘I’ll hold it higher,’ answer I, and I snatch at a soldier. ‘Up with me on your shoulder, big comrade,’ I say, and he lift me up. I make my sticks sing on the leather. ‘You shall take off your hat to the Little Corporal to-morrow, if you’ve still your head, brother’—speak Davoust like that, and then he ride away like the devil to Morand’s guns. Ha, ha, ha!” The sergeant’s face was blazing with a white glare, for he was very pale, and seemed unconscious of all save the scene in his mind’s eye. “Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed again. “Beautiful God, how did Davoust bring us on up to Sonnenberg! And next day I saw the Little Corporal. ‘Drummer,’ say he, ‘no head’s too high for my Guard. Come you, comrade, your general gives you to me. Come, Corporal Lagroin,’ he call; and I come. ‘But, first,’ he say, ‘up on the shoulder of your big soldier again, and play.’ ‘What shall I play, sire?’ I ask. ‘Play ten thousand heroes to Walhalla,’ he answer. I play, and I think of my brother Jacques, who went fighting to heaven the day before. Beautiful God! that was a day at Auerstadt.”
“Soldier,” said Valmond, waving his hand, “step on. There is a drum at Louis Quinze. Let us go together, comrade.”
The old sergeant was in a dream. He wheeled, the crowd made way for him, and at the neck of the white horse he came on with Valmond. As they passed the carriage of Madame Chalice, Valmond made no sign. They stopped in front of the hotel, and Valmond, motioning to the garcon, gave him an order. The old sergeant stood silent, his eyes full fixed upon Valmond. In a moment the boy came out with the drum. Valmond took it, and, holding it in his hands, said softly: “Soldier of the Old Guard, here is a drum of France.” Without a word the old man took the drum, his fingers trembling as he fastened it to his belt. When the sticks were in his hand, all trembling ceased, and his hands became steady. He was living in the past entirely.
“Soldier,” said Valmond in a loud voice, “remember Austerlitz. The Heights of Pratzen are before you. Play up the feet of the army.”
For an instant the old man did not move, and then a sullen sort of look came over his face. He was not a drummer at Austerlitz, and for the instant he did not remember the tune the drummers played.
“Soldier,” said Valmond softly, “with ‘the Little Sword that Danced’ play up the feet of the army.”
A light broke over the old man’s face. The swift look he cast on Valmond had no distrust now. Instantly his hand went to his cap.
“My General!” he said, and stepped in front of the white horse. There was a moment’s pause, and then the sergeant’s arms were raised, and down came the sticks with a rolling rattle on the leather. They sent a shiver of feeling through the village, and turned the meek white horse into a charger of war. No man laughed at the drama performed in Pontiac that day, not even the little coterie who were present, not even Monsieur De la Riviere, whose brow was black with hatred, for he had watched ‘the eyes of Madame Chalice fill with tears at the old sergeant’s tale of Auerstadt, had noticed her admiring glance, “at this damned comedian,” as he now called Valmond. When he came to her carriage, she said, with oblique suggestion:
“What do you think of it?”
“Impostor! fakir!” was his sulky reply. “Nothing more.”
“If fakirs and impostors are so convincing, dear monsieur, why be yourself longer? Listen!” she added. Valmond had spoken down at the aged drummer, whose arms were young again, as once more he marched on Pratzen. Suddenly from the sergeant’s lips there broke, in a high, shaking voice, to the rattle of the drum:
“Conscrits, au pas;
Ne pleurez pas;
Ne pleurez pas;
Marchez au pas,
Au pas, au pas, au pas, au pas!”
They had not gone twenty yards before fifty men and boys, caught in the inflammable moment, sprang out from the crowd, fell involuntarily into rough marching order, and joined in the inspiring refrain:
“Marchez au pas,
Au pas, au pas, au pas, au pas!”
The old man in front was charged anew. All at once, at a word from Valmond, he broke into the Marseillaise, with his voice and with his drum. To these Frenchmen of an age before the Revolution, the Marseillaise had only been a song. Now in their ignorant breasts there waked the spirit of France, and from their throats there burst out, with a half-delirious ecstasy:
“Allons, enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrive.”
As they neared the Louis Quinze, a dozen men, just arrived in the village, returned from river-driving, carried away by the chant, tumultuously joined in the procession, and so came on in a fever of vague patriotism. A false note in the proceedings, a mismove on the part of Valmond, would easily have made the thing ridiculous; but even to Madame Chalice, with her keen artistic sense, it had a pathetic sort of dignity, by virtue of its rude earnestness, its raw sincerity. She involuntarily thought of the great Napoleon and his toy kingdom of Elba, of Garibaldi and his handful of patriots. There were depths here, and she knew it.
“Even the pantaloon may have a soul,” she said; “or a king may have a heart.”
In front of the Louis Quinze, Valmond waved his hand for a halt, and the ancient drummer wheeled and faced him, fronting the crowd. Valmond was pale, and his eyes burned like restless ghosts. Surely the Cupid bow of the thin Napoleonic lips was there, the distant yet piercing look. He waved his hand again, and the crowd were silent.
“My children,” said he, “we have begun well. Once more among you the antique spirit lives. From you may come the quickening of our beloved country; for she is yours, though here under the flag of our ancient and amiable enemy you wait the hour of your return to her. In you there is nothing mean or dull; you are true Frenchmen. My love is with you. And you and I, true to each other, may come into our own again—over there!”
He pointed to the East.
“Through you and me may France be born again; and in the villages and fields and houses of Normandy and Brittany you may, as did your ancestors, live in peace, and bring your bones to rest in that blessed and honourable ground. My children, my heart is full. Let us move on together. Napoleon from St. Helena calls to you, Napoleon in Pontiac calls to you! Will you come?”
Reckless cheering followed; many were carried away into foolish tears, and Valmond sat still and let them kiss his hand, while pitchers of wine went round.
“Where is our fakir now, dear monsieur?” said Madame Chalice to De la Riviere once again.
Valmond got silence with a gesture. He opened his waistcoat, took from his bosom an order fastened to a little bar of gold, and held it in his hand.
“Drummer,” he said, in a clear, full tone, “call the army to attention.”
The old man set their blood tingling with the impish sticks.
“I advance Sergeant Lagroin, of the Old Guard of glorious memory, to the rank of Captain in my Household Troops, and I command you to obey him as such.”
His look bent upon the crowd, as Napoleon’s might have done on the Third Corps.
“Drummer, call the army to attention,” fell the words.
And again like a small whirlwind of hailstones the sticks shook on the drum.
“I advance Captain Lagroin to the rank of Colonel in my Household Troops, and I command you to obey him as such.”
And once more: “Drummer, call the army to attention.”
The sticks swung down, but somehow they faltered, for the drummer was shaking now.
“I advance Colonel Lagroin to the rank of General in my Household Troops, and I command you to obey him as such.”
Then he beckoned, and the old man drew near. Stooping, he pinned the order upon his breast. When the sergeant saw what it was, he turned pale, trembled, and the drumsticks fell from his hand. His eyes shone like sun on wet glass, then tears sprang from them upon his face. He caught Valmond’s hand and kissed it, and cried, oblivious of them all:
“Ah, sire, sire! It is true. It is true. I know that ribbon, and I know you are a Napoleon. Sire, I love you, and I will die for you!”
For the first time that day a touch of the fantastic came into Valmond’s manner.
“General,” he said, “the centuries look down on us as they looked down on him, your sire—and mine!”
He doffed his hat, and the hats of all likewise came off in a strange quiet. A cheer followed, and Valmond motioned for wine to go round freely. Then he got off his horse, and, taking the weeping old man by the arm, himself loosening the drum from his belt, they passed into the hotel.
“A cheerful bit of foolery and treason,” said Monsieur De la Riviere to Madame Chalice.
“My dear Seigneur, if you only had more humour and less patriotism!” she answered. “Treason may have its virtues. It certainly is interesting, which, in your present gloomy state, you are not.”
“I wonder, madame, that you can countenance this imposture,” he broke out.
“Excellent and superior monsieur, I wonder sometimes that I can countenance you. Breakfast with me on Sunday, and perhaps I will tell you why—at twelve o’clock.”
She drove on, but, meeting the Cure, stopped her carriage.
“Why so grave, my dear Cure?” she asked, holding out her hand.
He fingered the gold cross upon his breast—she had given it to him two years before.
“I am going to counsel him—Monsieur Valmond,” he said. Then, with a sigh: “He sent me two hundred dollars for the altar to-day, and fifty dollars to buy new cassocks for myself.”
“Come in the morning and tell me what he says,” she answered; “and bring our dear avocat.”
As she looked from her window an hour later, she saw bonfires burning, and up from the village came the old song, that had prefaced a drama in Pontiac.
But Elise Malboir had a keener interest that night, for Valmond and Parpon brought her uncle “General Lagroin,” in honour to her mother’s cottage; and she sat and listened dreamily, as Valmond and the old man talked of great things to be done.
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