Tales of Two Countries
“Presently his men were seen upon the heights, and already the people
around the Emperor were shouting ‘Victoire!’
“‘It is an hour too late,’ answered Napoleon.
“As he now saw that the Marshal in his new position was suffering much
from the enemy’s fire, he determined to go to his assistance, and, at
the same time, to try to crush Wellington at one blow. He chose for
the execution of this plan, Kellermann’s famous dragoons and the heavy
cavalry of the guard. Now comes one of the crucial moments of the fight;
you must come out here upon the battle-field!”
Cousin Hans at once rose from the bench and took the position the
captain pointed out to him.
“Now you are Wellington!” Cousin Hans drew himself up. “You are standing
there on the plain with the greater part of the English infantry. Here
comes the whole of the French cavalry rushing down upon you. Milhaud
has joined Kellermann; they form an illimitable multitude of horses,
breastplates, plumes and shining weapons. Surround yourself with a
square!”
Cousin Hans stood for a moment bewildered; but presently he understood
the captain’s meaning. He hastily drew a square of deep strokes around
him in the sand.
“Right!” cried the captain, beaming, “Now the Frenchmen cut into the
square; the ranks break, but join again, the cavalry wheels away and
gathers for a fresh attack. Wellington has at every moment to surround
himself with a new square.
“The French cavalry fight like lions: the proud memories of the
Emperor’s campaigns fill them with that confidence of victory which made
his armies invincible. They fight for victory, for glory, for the French
eagles, and for the little cold man who, they know, stands on the height
behind them; whose eye follows every single man, who sees all, and
forgets nothing.
“But to-day they have an enemy who is not easy to deal with. They
stand where they stand, these Englishmen, and if they are forced a step
backwards, they regain their position the next moment. They have no
eagles and no Emperor; when they fight they think neither of military
glory nor of revenge; but they think of home. The thought of never
seeing again the oak-trees of Old England is the most melancholy an
Englishman knows. Ah, no, there is one which is still worse: that of
coming home dishonored. And when they think that the proud fleet, which
they know is lying to the northward waiting for them, would deny them
the honor of a salute, and that Old England would not recognize her
sons--then they grip their muskets tighter, they forget their wounds and
their flowing blood; silent and grim, they clinch their teeth, and hold
their post, and die like men.”
Twenty times were the squares broken and reformed, and twelve thousand
brave Englishmen fell. Cousin Hans could understand how Wellington wept,
when he said, “Night or Blücher!”
The captain had in the mean time left Belle-Alliance, and was spying
around in the grass behind the bench, while he continued his exposition
which grew more and more vivid: “Wellington was now in reality beaten
and a total defeat was inevitable,” cried the captain, in a sombre
voice, “when this fellow appeared on the scene!” And as he said this, he
kicked the stone which Cousin Hans had seen him concealing, so that it
rolled in upon the field of battle.
“Now or never,” thought Cousin Hans.
“Blücher!” he cried.
“Exactly!” answered the captain, “it’s the old werewolf Blücher, who
comes marching upon the field with his Prussians.”
So Grouchy never came; there was Napoleon, deprived of his whole right
wing, and facing 150,000 men. But with never failing coolness he gives
his orders for a great change of front.
But it was too late, and the odds were too vast.
Wellington, who, by Blücher’s arrival, was enabled to bring his reserve
into play, now ordered his whole army to advance. And yet once more
the Allies were forced to pause for a moment by a furious charge led by
Ney--the lion of the day.
“Do you see him there!” cried the captain, his eyes flashing.
And Cousin Hans saw him, the romantic hero, Duke of Elchingen, Prince of
Moskwa, son of a cooper in Saarlouis, Marshal and Peer of France. He saw
him rush onward at the head of his battalions--five horses had been
shot under him with his sword in his hand, his uniform torn to shreds,
hatless, and with the blood streaming down his face.
And the battalions rallied and swept ahead; they followed their Prince
of Moskwa, their savior at the Beresina, into the hopeless struggle
for the Emperor and for France. Little did they dream that, six months
later, the King of France would have their dear prince shot as a traitor
to his country in the gardens of the Luxembourg.
There he rushed around, rallying and directing his troops, until there
was nothing more for the general to do; then he plied his sword like a
common soldier until all was over, and he was carried away in the rout.
For the French army fled.
The Emperor threw himself into the throng; but the terrible hubbub
drowned his voice, and in the twilight no one knew the little man on the
white horse.
Then he took his stand in a little square of his Old Guard, which still
held out upon the plain; he would fain have ended his life on his last
battlefield. But his generals flocked around him, and the old grenadiers
shouted: “Withdraw, Sire! Death will not have you.”
They did not know that it was because the _Emperor_ had forfeited his
right to die as a French soldier. They led him half-resisting from the
field; and, unknown in his own army, he rode away into the darkness of
the night, having lost everything. “So ended the battle of Waterloo,”
said the captain, as he seated himself on the bench and arranged his
neck-cloth.--Cousin Hans thought with indignation of Uncle Frederick,
who had spoken of Captain Schrappe in such a tone of superiority. He
was, at least, a far more interesting personage than an old official
mill-horse like Uncle Frederick.
Hans now went about and gathered up the gloves and other small objects
which the generals, in the heat of the fight, had scattered over the
battle-field to mark the positions; and, as he did so, he stumbled upon
old Blücher. He picked him up and examined him carefully.
He was a hard lump of granite, knubbly as sugar-candy, which almost
seemed to bear a personal resemblance to “Feldtmarschall Vorwärts.” Hans
turned to the captain with a polite bow.
“Will you allow me, captain, to keep this stone. It will be the best
possible memento of this interesting and instructive conversation, for
which I am really most grateful to you.” And thereupon he put Blücher
into his coat-tail pocket.
The captain assured him that it had been a real pleasure to him to
observe the interest with which his young friend had followed the
exposition. And this was nothing but the truth, for he was positively
enraptured with Cousin Hans.
“Come and sit down now, young man. We deserve a little rest after a
ten-hours’ battle,” he added, smiling.
Cousin Hans seated himself on the bench and felt his collar with some
anxiety. Before coming out, he had put on the most fascinating one his
wardrobe afforded. Fortunately, it had retained its stiffness; but he
felt the force of Wellington’s words: “Night or Blücher”--for it would
not have held out much longer.
It was fortunate, too, that the warm afternoon sun had kept strollers
away from the esplanade. Otherwise a considerable audience would
probably have gathered around these two gentlemen, who went on
gesticulating with their arms, and now and then prancing around.
They had had only one on-looker--the sentry who stands at the corner of
the gymnastic-school.
His curiosity had enticed him much too far from his post, for he had
marched several leagues along the highway from Brussels to Waterloo.
The captain would certainly have called him to order long ago for this
dereliction of duty but for the fact that the inquisitive private had
been of great strategic importance. He represented, as he stood there,
the whole of Wellington’s reserve; and now that the battle was over the
reserve retired in good order northward towards Brussels, and again took
up _le poste perdu_ at the corner of the gymnastic-school.
III.
“Suppose you come home and have some supper with me,” said the captain;
“my house is very quiet, but I think perhaps a young man of your
character may have no great objection to passing an evening in a quiet
family.”
Cousin Hans’s heart leaped high with joy; he accepted the invitation in
the modest manner peculiar to him, and they were soon on the way to No.
34.
How curiously fortune favored him to-day! Not many hours had passed
since he saw her for the first time; and now, in the character of a
special favorite of her father, he was hastening to pass the evening in
her company.
The nearer they approached to No. 34, in the more life-like colors did
the enchanting vision of Miss Schrappe stand before his eyes; the
blonde hair curling over the forehead, the lithe figure, and then these
roguish, light-blue eyes!
His heart beat so that he could scarcely speak, and as they mounted the
stair he had to take firm hold of the railing; his happiness made him
almost dizzy.
In the parlor, a large corner-room, they found no one. The captain went
out to summon his daughter, and Hans heard him calling, “Betty!”
Betty! What a lovely name, and how well it suited that lovely being!
The happy lover was already thinking how delightful it would be when
he came home from his work at dinner-time, and could call out into the
kitchen: “Betty! is dinner ready?”
At this moment the captain entered the room again with his daughter. She
came straight up to Cousin Hans, took his hand, and bade him welcome.
But she added, “You must really excuse me deserting you again at once,
for I am in the middle of a dish of buttered eggs, and that’s no joke, I
can tell you.”
Thereupon she disappeared again; the captain also withdrew to prepare
for the meal, and Cousin Hans was once more alone.
The whole meeting had not lasted many seconds, and yet it seemed to
Cousin Hans that in these moments he had toppled from ledge to ledge,
many fathoms down, into a deep, black pit. He supported himself with
both hands against an old, high-backed easy-chair; he neither heard,
saw, nor thought; but half mechanically he repeated to himself: “It was
not she--it was not she!”
No, it was not she. The lady whom he had just seen, and who must
consequently be Miss Schrappe, had not a trace of blonde hair curling
over her brow. On the contrary, she had dark hair, smoothed down to both
sides. Her eyes were not in the least roguish or light blue, but serious
and dark-gray--in short, she was as unlike the charmer as possible.
After his first paralysis, Cousin Hans’s blood began to boil; a violent
anguish seized him: he raged against the captain, against Miss Schrappe,
against Uncle Frederick and Wellington, and the whole world.
He would smash the big mirror and all the furniture, and then jump
out of the corner window; or he would take his hat and stick, rush
down-stairs, leave the house, and never more set foot in it; or he would
at least remain no longer than was absolutely necessary.
Little by little he became calmer, but a deep melancholy descended upon
him. He had felt the unspeakable agony of disappointment in his first
love, and when his eye fell on his own image in the mirror, he shook his
head compassionately.
The captain now returned, well-brushed and spick and span. He opened a
conversation about the politics of the day. It was with difficulty that
Cousin Hans could even give short and commonplace answers; it seemed
as though all that had interested him in Captain Schrappe had entirely