within a mean room, which had hastily been prepared for his use, upon a camp bed, having cast himself down, fully clothed as he was, lay the worn-out, dispirited, embittered emperor. he sought sleep in vain. since leipsic, with its horrible disaster a few months before, one reverse of fortune had succeeded another. he who had entered every country a conqueror at the head of his armies, whose myriads of soldiers had overrun every land, eating it up with ruthless greed and rapacity, and spreading destruction far and wide, was now at bay. he who had dictated terms of peace in all the capitals of europe at the head of triumphant legions was now with a small, weak, ill-equipped, unfed army, striving to protect his own capital. france was receiving the pitiless treatment which she had accorded other lands. with what measure she had meted out, it was being measured back to her again. the cup of trembling, filled with bitterness, was being held to her shrinking lips, and she must perforce drain it to the dregs. after all napoleon's far-flung campaigns, after all his overwhelming victories, after the vast outpouring of blood and treasure, after all his glory and all his fame, the end was at hand.

the prostrate emperor stared out through the low window into the gray sky with its drift of snow across the panes. he heard faintly the tumult outside. disaster, ruin, despair entered his heart. the young conscripts were disheartened by defeat, the steady old veterans were pitifully few in number, thousands of them were in foreign prisons, many more thousands of them were dead. disease was rife among the youthful recruits, unused to such hard campaigning, as he had summoned to the colors. without food and without arms, they were beginning to desert their eagles. the spirit of the marshals and great officers whom he had raised from the dust to affluence and power was waning. they were worn out with much fighting. they wanted peace, almost at any price. he remembered their eager questions when he had joined the army a month ago.

"what reinforcements has your majesty brought?"

"none," he had been compelled to answer.

"what, then, shall we do?" queried one after the other.

"we must try fortune with what we have," he had declared undauntedly.

well, they had tried fortune. brienne, where he had been a boy at school, had been the scene of a brilliantly successful action. they had lost no glory at la rothière afterward—although they gained nothing else—where with thirty thousand men he had beaten back through one long bloody day and night thrice that number, only to have to retreat in the end for the salvation of those who had been left alive. and, to him who had been wont to spend them so indifferently, men had suddenly become precious, since he could get no more. every dead or wounded man was now unreplaceable, and each loss made his problem harder to solve. since those two first battles he had been forced back, step by step, mile by mile, league by league, everywhere; and all his lieutenants likewise. now schwarzenberg, with one hundred and thirty thousand men, confronted him on the seine and the aube, and blücher, with eighty thousand men, was marching on paris by way of the marne, with only macdonald and his beaten and dispirited men, not ten thousand in number, to hold the fiery old prussian field marshal in check.

"how had it all come to this, and why?" the man asked himself, and, with all his greatness and clearness of vision, the reason did not occur to him. for he had only himself to blame for his misfortunes. he was not the man that he had been. for a moment his old spirit had flashed out in the common room of the inn two hours before, but the reaction left him heavy, weary, old, lonely. physically, he felt unequal to the strain. his human frame was almost worn out. mere men cannot long usurp the attributes of god. intoxicated with success, he had grasped at omnipotence, and for a time had seemed to enjoy it, only to fail. the mills of the gods do grind slowly, but they do grind immeasurably small in the end.

what a long, bloody way he had traversed since toulon, since arcola, since the bridge at lodi, since marengo? into what far-off lands it had led him: italy, egypt, syria, spain, austria, prussia and the great, white, cold empire of the north. and all the long way paved with corpses—corpses he had regarded with indifference until to-day.

it was cold in the room, in spite of the fire in the stove. it reminded him of that dreadful retreat. the emperor covered his face with his hand. no one was there. he could afford to give away. there rose before him in the darkness the face of the wife of his youth, only to be displaced by the nearer woman, the austrian wife and the little son whom he had so touchingly confided to the national guard a month ago when he left paris for the last try with fortune for his empire and his life. would the allies at last and finally beat him; would francis joseph, weak monarch whom he hated, take back his daughter, and with her napoleon's son, and bring him up in austria to hate the name of france and his father? the emperor groaned aloud.

the darkness fell upon the world outside, upon the room within, upon the soul of the great captain approaching the nadir of his fortunes, his spirit almost at the breaking point. to him at last came berthier and maret. they had the right of entrance. the time for which he had asked had passed. young marteau admitted them without question. they entered the room slowly, not relishing their task, yet resolute to discharge their errand. the greater room outside was alight from fire and from lanterns. enough illumination came through the door into the bed-chamber for their purpose—more than enough for the emperor. he turned his head away, lest they should see what they should see. the two marshals bowed and stood silent.

"well?" said the emperor at last, his voice unduly harsh, as if to cover emotion with its roughness, and they noticed that he did not look at them.

"sire, the courier of the duke of vicenza waits for his answer," said maret.

there was another long pause.

"will not your majesty give way for the good of the people?" urged berthier. "give peace to france, sire. the army is hungry——"

"am i god, messieurs, to feed thousands with a few loaves and fishes?" cried the emperor bitterly.

"no, sire. therefore, authorize the duke to sign the treaty, and——"

"what!" said napoleon fiercely, sitting up on the bed and facing them. "you would have me sign a treaty like that? trample under foot my coronation oath? unheard-of disaster may have snatched from me the promise to renounce my own conquests, but give up those before me, never! leave france smaller, weaker than i found her! god keep me from such a disgrace. reply to caulaincourt, since you wish it, but tell him i reject this treaty. we must have better terms. i prefer to run the uttermost risks of war."

berthier opened his mouth to speak again, but napoleon silenced him with word and gesture.

"no more," he said. "go."

the two marshals bowed and left the room with downcast heads and resentful hearts. as they disappeared napoleon called after them.

"send me that boy at the door. lights," he cried, as the young officer, not waiting for the order to be repeated, promptly entered the inner room and saluted. "the maps on the table, bring them here, and the table, too," commanded the emperor.

even as the lights which were placed on the table dispelled the dusk of the room, so something had dispelled the gloom of the great man's soul. for a moment he looked almost young again. the gray pallor left his cheeks. fire sparkled in his eyes.

"not yet—not yet," he muttered, spreading the maps upon the table. "we will have one more try with fortune. my star is low on the horizon, but it has not set yet."

"nor shall it set, sire, while i and my comrades live," returned marteau.

"you are right," said the emperor. "you stand to me for france. your spirit typifies the spirit of my soldiery, does it not?"

"theirs is even greater than mine, sire," was the prompt answer.

"that's well. do you know the country hereabouts?"

"i was born at aumenier."

"let me see," said the emperor, "the village lies beyond sézanne?"

"yes, sire."

"in an opening in the great woods beyond the marshes of st. gond," continued the other, studying the map, "there is a château there. are you by any chance of the ancient house of aumenier?"

"my father was a warden on the estates of the last marquis."

"good. do you know that country?"

"i have hunted over every rod of it as a boy, sire."

"i must have news," said the emperor, "information, definite tidings. i want to know where blücher is; where his several army corps are. can i trust so young a head as yours with great matters?"

"tortures could not wring from me anything you may confide, your majesty," said the young man resolutely.

"i believe you," said the emperor, looking at him keenly and reading him like a book. "look. before daybreak marmont marches to sézanne. the next day after i follow. i shall leave enough men behind the river here to hold back schwarzenberg, or at least to check him if he advances. with the rest i shall fall on blücher."

the young man's eyes sparkled. he had been bending over the map. he drew himself up and saluted.

"it is the emperor at his best," he said.

"you have studied the art of war, young sir?"

"i have read every one of your majesty's campaigns."

"and you see what i would do?"

"not altogether, but——"

"fall upon the flank of the unsuspecting prussian, burst through his line, break his center, turn to the right or left, beat him in detail, drive him back, relieve paris, and then——"

"and then, sire?"

"come back and do the same thing with schwarzenberg!"

"your majesty!" cried the young soldier, as the whole mighty plan was made clear to him.

"ha! it brightens your eyes and flushes your cheek, does it not? so it will brighten the eyes and flush the cheeks of france. i will show them. in six weeks i will drive them across the rhine. in another month they shall sue for peace and the vistula shall be our boundary."

"what does your majesty desire of me?"

"that you go at once. take with you whomsoever you will. bring or send me reports. you are educated?"

"i was a student at your majesty's military college," answered the young man.

"did you finish there?"

"i finished in your majesty's army last year."

"how old are you?"

"twenty-two, sire."

"you belong to the foot, but you can ride?"

"anything."

"marshal berthier will give you horses. i shall be at sézanne the day after to-morrow night. you will have news for me then?"

"or be dead, sire."

"i have no use for dead men. don't get yourself taken. any fool can die, or be made prisoner. it is a wise man who can live for me and france."

"i shall live," said the young man simply. "have you any further command, sire?"

"none."

the hand of marteau was raised in salute.

"stop," said the emperor, as the soldier turned to the door.

"sire?"

"come back with news, and let us but escape from this tightening coil, and you shall be a lieutenant colonel in my guard."

"i will do it for love of your majesty alone," cried the soldier, turning away.

it was not nearly dawn before berthier and maret, who had been pondering over the dispatch to caulaincourt, who was fighting the envoys of the allies at the congress at chatillon, ventured to intrude upon the emperor. having come to his decision, as announced to the young soldier, who had got his horses and his comrade and gone, the emperor, with that supreme command of himself which few men possessed, had at last got a few hours of rest. he had dressed himself with the assistance of his faithful valet, constant, who had given him a bath and shaved him, and he now confronted the two astonished marshals with an air serene—even cheerful.

"dispatches!" he said, as they approached him. "it is a question of a very different matter. tell caulaincourt to prolong the negotiations, but to concede nothing, to commit me to nothing. i am going to beat blücher. if i succeed, the state of affairs will entirely change, and we shall see what we shall see. tell marmont to give orders for his corps to march immediately after they get some breakfast. no, they may not wait till morning. fortune has given the prussians into my hands. write to my brother in paris; tell him that he may expect news from us of the most important character in forty-eight hours. let the parisians continue their misérérés and their forty-hour-long prayers for the present. we'll soon give them something else to think of."

"but, sire——" feebly interposed berthier.

"do as i tell you," said the emperor, good-humoredly, "and leave the rest to me." he was in a mood apparently that nothing could dash that morning. "and you will be as much surprised as the prussians, and i believe that nobody can be more amazed than they will be."