The Bronze Eagle (43 page)

He turned his horse's head round to the road, pressed his knees into its
sides, and then as the poor, weary beast started to amble leisurely down
the road, Maurice looked back for the last time on the prostrate,
pathetic figure of the lonely man who had given his all for him: he
looked
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at every landmark which would enable him to find that man
again—the angle of the forest where it touched the meadow,—the
milestone, the trees by the roadside—oh! he meant to do his duty, to do
it well and quickly, to send the conveyance, to neglect nothing; then,
with a sigh—half of bitterness, yet full of satisfaction—he finally
turned away and looked straight out before him into the distance where
Brussels lay, and where the happiness of Crystal's love called to him,
and he would find rest and peace in the warm affection of her faithful
heart.

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An hour later Maurice de St. Genis was in Brussels. Though his head
still ached his mind was clear, and thoughts of Crystal—of happiness
with her now at last within sight—had chased every other thought away.

His home had been with the de Cambrays ever since those old, sad days in
England; he had a home to go to now:—a home where the kindly friendship
of the Comte as well as the love of Crystal was ready to welcome him.
The warmth of anticipated happiness and well-being warmed his heart and
gave strength to his body. The horrors of the past few hours seemed all
to have melted away behind him on the Brussels road as did the
remembrance of a man—wounded himself and spent—risking his life for
the sake of a friend. Not that St. Genis meant to be ungrateful—nor did
he forget that wounded man—lying alone and sick on the fringe of the
wood by the roadside.

As soon as he had taken his horse round to the barracks in the rue des
Comédiens, and before even he had a wash or had his uniform cleaned of
stains and mud, he rushed to the headquarters of the Army Service to see
how soon a conveyance could be sent out to his friend—and when he was
unable to obtain what he wanted there, he rushed from hospital to
hospital, thence to two or three doctors whom he knew of to see what
could be done. But the hospitals
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were already over-full and over-busy:
their ambulances were all already on the way: as for the doctors, they
were all from home—all at work where their skill was most needed—an
army of doctors, of ambulances and drivers would not suffice at this
hour to bring all the wounded in from the spot where that awful battle
was raging.

And Maurice saw time slipping by: he had already spent an hour in a
fruitless quest. He longed to see Crystal and waxed impatient at the
delay. Anon at the English hospital a kindly person—who listened
sympathetically to his tale—promised him that the ambulance which was
just setting out in the direction of Mont Saint Jean would be on the
look-out for his wounded friend by the roadside; and Maurice with a sigh
of relief felt that he had indeed done his duty and done his best.

At the English hospital Clyffurde would be splendidly looked
after—nowhere else could he find such sympathetic treatment! And
Maurice with a light heart went back to the barracks in the rue des
Comédiens, where he had a wash and had his uniform cleaned. Somewhat
refreshed, though still very tired, he hurried round to the rue du
Marais, where the Comte de Cambray had his lodgings. The first sight of
Brussels had already told him the whole pitiable tale of panic and of
desolation which had filled the city in the wake of the fugitive troops.
The streets were encumbered with vehicles of every kind—carts,
barouches, barrows—with horses loosely tethered, with the wounded who
lay about on litters of straw along the edges of the pavement, in
doorways, under archways in the centre of open places, with crowds of
weeping women and crying children wandering aimlessly from place to
place trying to find the loved one who might be lying here, hurt or
mayhap dying.

And everywhere men in tattered uniforms, with grimy hands and faces, and
boots knee-deep in stains of mud,
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stood about or sat in the empty
carts, talking, gesticulating, giving sundry, confused and contradictory
accounts of the great battle—describing Napoleon's decisive
victory—Wellington's rout—the prolonged absence of Blücher and the
Prussians, cause of the terrible disaster.

M. le Comte d'Artois had rushed precipitately from Brussels up to Ghent
to warn His Majesty the King of France that all hope of saving his
throne was now at an end, and that the wisest course to pursue was to
return to England and resign himself once more to obscurity and exile.

M. le Prince de Condé too had gone off to Antwerp in a huge barouche,
having under his care the treasure and jewels of the crown hastily
collected three months ago at the Tuileries.

In every open space a number of prisoners were being guarded by mixed
patrols of Dutch, Belgian or German soldiers, and their cry of "Vive
l'Empereur!" which they reiterated with unshakable obstinacy roused the
ire of their captors, and provoked many a savage blow, and many a broken
head.

But St. Genis did not pause to look on these sights: he had not the
strength to stand up in the midst of these confused masses of
terror-driven men and women, and to shout to them that they were
fools—that all their panic must be turned to joy, their lamentations to
shouts of jubilation. News of victory was bound to spread through the
city within the next hour, and he himself longed only to see Crystal, to
reassure her as to his own safety, to see the light of happiness kindled
in her eyes by the news which he brought. He had not the strength for
more.

It was old Jeanne who opened the door at the lodgings in the rue du
Marais when Maurice finally rang the bell there.

"M. le Marquis!" she exclaimed. "Oh! but you are ill."

[Pg 341]
"Only very tired and weak, Jeanne," he said. "It has been an awful day."

"Ah! but M. le Comte will be pleased!"

"And Mademoiselle Crystal?" asked Maurice with a smile which had in it
all the self-confidence of the accepted lover.

"Mademoiselle Crystal will be happy too," said Jeanne. "She has been so
unhappy, so desperately anxious all day."

"Can I see her?"

"Mademoiselle is out for the moment, M. le Marquis. And M. le Comte has
gone to the Cercle des Légitimistes in the rue des Cendres—perhaps M.
le Marquis knows—it is not far."

"I would like to see Mademoiselle Crystal first. You understand, don't
you, Jeanne?"

"Yes, I do, M. le Marquis," sighed faithful Jeanne, who was always
inclined to be sentimental.

"How long will she be, do you think?"

"Oh! another half hour. Perhaps more. Mademoiselle has gone to the
cathedral. If M. le Marquis will give himself the trouble to walk so
far, he cannot fail to see Mademoiselle when she comes out of church."

But already—before Jeanne had finished speaking—Maurice had turned on
his heel and was speeding back down the narrow street. Tired and weak as
he was, his one idea was to see Crystal, to hear her voice, to see the
love-light in her eyes. He felt that at sight of her all fatigue would
be gone, all recollections of the horrors of this day wiped out with the
first look of joy and relief with which she would greet him.

The service was over, and the congregation had filed out of the
cathedral. Crystal was one of the last to go. She stood for a long while
in the porch looking down with unseeing eyes on the bustle and
excitement which went
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on in the Place down below. Her mind was not
here. It was far indeed from the crowd of terror-stricken or gossiping
men and women, of wounded soldiers, terrified peasantry and anxious
townsfolk that encumbered the precincts of the stately edifice.

From the remote distance—out toward the south—came the boom and roar
of cannon and musket fire—almost incessant still. There was her heart!
there her thoughts! with the brave men who were fighting for their
national existence—with the British troops and with their
sufferings—and she stood here, staring straight out before
her—dry-eyed and pale and small white hands clasped tightly together.

The greater part of to-day she had sat by the open window in the shabby
drawing-room in the rue du Marais, listening to that awful fusillade,
wondering with mind well-nigh bursting with horror and with misery which
of those cruel shots which she heard in the dim distance would still for
ever the brave and loyal heart that had made so many silent sacrifices
for her.

And her father, vaguely thinking that she was anxious about
Maurice—vaguely wondering that she cared so much—had done his best to
try and comfort her: "She need not fear much for Maurice," he had told
her as reassuringly as he could—"the Brunswickers were not likely to
suffer much. The brunt of the conflict would fall upon the British. Ah!
but they would lose very heavily. Wellington had not more than seventy
thousand men to put up against the Corsican's troops; and only a hundred
and fifty cannon against two hundred and eighty. Yes, the British would
probably be annihilated by superior forces: but no doubt the other
allies—and the Brunswickers—would come off a great deal better."

But Mme. la Duchesse douairière d'Agen offered no such consolation. She
contented herself with saying that she
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was sure in her mind that
Maurice would come through quite safely, and that she prayed to God with
all her heart and soul that the gallant British troops would not suffer
too heavily. Then with her fine, gentle hand she patted Crystal's fair
curls which were clinging matted and damp against the young girl's
burning forehead. And she stooped and kissed those aching dry blue eyes
and whispered quite under her breath so that Crystal could not be sure
if she heard correctly: "May God protect him too! He is a brave and a
good man!"

And then Crystal had gone out to seek peace and rest in beautiful old
Ste. Gudule, so full of memories of other conflicts, other prayers,
other deeds of heroism of long ago. Here in the dim light and the
silence and the peace, her quivering nerves had become somewhat stilled:
and when she came out she was able just for the moment neither to see or
hear the terror-mongers down below and only to think of the heroes out
there on the field of battle for whom she had just prayed with such
passionate earnestness.

Suddenly in the crowd she recognised Maurice. He was coming up the
cathedral steps, looking for her, no doubt—Jeanne must have directed
him. When he drew near to her, he saw that a look of happy surprise and
of true joy lit up the delicate pathos of her face. He ran quickly to
her now. He would have taken her in his arms—here in face of the
crowd—but there was something in her manner which instinctively sobered
him and he had to be content with the little cold hands which she held
out to him and with imprinting a kiss upon her finger tips.

Already in his eyes she had read that the news which he brought was not
so bad as rumour had foretold.

"Maurice," she cried excitedly, with a little catch in her throat, "you
are well and safe, thank God! And what news? . . ."

"The news is good," Maurice replied. "Victory is as
[Pg 344]
sured by now. It has
been a hard day, but we have won."

She said nothing for a moment. But the tears gathered in her eyes, her
lips quivered and Maurice knew that she was thanking God. Then she
turned back to him and he could see her face glowing with excitement.

"And our allies," she asked, and now that little catch in her throat was
more marked, "the British troops? . . . We heard that they behaved like
heroes, and bore the brunt of this awful battle."

"I don't know much about the British troops, my sweet," he replied
lightly, "but what news I have I will have to impart to your father as
well as to you. So it will have to keep until I see him . . . but just
now, Crystal, while we are alone . . . I have other things to say to
you."

But it is doubtful if Crystal heard more than just the first words which
he had spoken, for she broke in quite irrelevantly:

"You don't know about the British troops, Maurice? Oh! but you must
know! . . . Don't you know what British regiments were engaged? . . ."

"I know that none of our own people were in British regiments, Crystal,"
he retorted somewhat drily, "whereas the Brunswickers and Nassauers were
as much French as German . . . they fought gallantly all day . . . you
do not ask so much about them."

"But . . ." she stammered while a hot flush spread over her cheeks, "I
thought . . . you said . . ."

"Are you not content for the moment, Crystal," he called out with tender
reproach, "to know that victory has crowned our King and his allies and
that I have come back to you safely out of that raging hell at Waterloo?
Are you not glad that I am here?"

He spoke more vehemently now, for there was something in Crystal's calm
attitude which had begun to chill him. Had he not been in deadly danger
all the day? Had she
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not heard that distant cannon's roar which had
threatened his life throughout all these hours? Had he not come back out
of the very jaws of Death?

And yet here she stood white as a lily and as unruffled; except for that
one first exclamation of joy not a single cry from the heart had forced
itself through her pale, slightly trembling lips: yet she was sweet and
girlish and tender as of old and even now at the implied reproach her
eyes had quickly filled with tears.

"How can you ask, Maurice?" she protested gently. "I have thought of you
and prayed for you all day."