gallantly on his errand rode young marteau. napoleon's order to berthier, by him transmitted down the line, had secured four of the best horses in the army for his messengers. for young marteau went not alone. with him rode a tall grenadier of the imperial guard, whose original name had been lost, or forgot, in a sobriquet which fitted him perfectly, and which he had richly earned in a long career as a soldier. they called him "bullet stopper," "balle-arrêtante," the curious compound ran in french, and the soldiers clipped it and condensed it into "bal-arrêt!" he used to boast that he had been wounded in every country in europe and in asia and africa as well. he had been hit more times than any soldier high or low in the army. he had distinguished himself by valor, and, but for his humble extraction and meager education, might have risen to a high command. as it was, he was personally known to the emperor, and was accounted as one of the favorite soldiers of the army.

he, too, had been a dweller on the aumenier estates. it was his tales of adventure which had kindled the martial spirit in young marteau, whom he had known from his birth. a warm friendship subsisted between the young officer and the old soldier, which no difference in rank or station could ever impair. when the emperor had given him leave to take with him whomsoever he would, his thoughts had at once turned to old bullet stopper. the latter had gladly accepted the invitation.

behold him now, his huge body astride of an enormous horse—for, although the grenadier was a foot-soldier, he could still ride after a fashion—plodding along through the mud and the wet and the cold on the mission which, if successful, would perhaps enable napoleon to save the army and france, to say nothing of his throne and his family.

captain marteau, or major marteau, to give him his new title, had said nothing as to the nature of his mission, upon which they had been dispatched, to the humble comrade, the faithful follower who accompanied him. he had only told him that it was difficult, dangerous, and of vital importance, and he had explained to him that his familiarity with the country, as well as a warm-hearted admiration and respect for his shrewdness and skill and courage, had caused his selection. that was enough for the old soldier; dangers, difficulties, were as the breath of life to the veteran. and he was always happy to follow marteau, in whose career he took an interest almost fatherly.

the weather was frightful. it had snowed and then thawed. the temperature was now just above the freezing point. the rough wind was raw, the fierce winter gale was laden with wet snow. the roads, like all country cross-roads in france, or anywhere else, for that matter, in that day, were a sea of mud. it was well that the pair had brought two extra horses. by changing mounts from time to time they were enabled to spare their beasts and make the greater speed. the emperor had impressed upon his young aide the necessity for getting the information to him at the earliest possible moment. haste was everything. so they pressed on.

without waiting for their report, and presuming on his general knowledge of blücher's character and shrewdly deducing the exact state of affairs napoleon was already acting as if he possessed absolute and accurate information. the drums were beating the long roll as they rode through the still dark streets of the little town of nogent. horses were being harnessed to guns, baggage wagons were being loaded, ammunition caissons were being got ready. the troops were assembling out of houses and tents, and coming from around fires, where many of them had passed an unsheltered night.

there was little of the joy, the gaiety, the élan of the french soldier, to be seen in the faces of the men thus summoned to the eagles. they came, indeed, they answered the call, but with black looks and sullen faces and a manner almost despairing. they had fought and fought and fought. they had been beaten back and back and back, and when they had not been fighting they had been retreating. and always they were hungry. and always they were cold.

the enormous armies of schwarzenberg had been extended on either side. they were constantly threatened with being outflanked. most of them were young soldiers, weary and dispirited, and many of them unarmed. every battle had reduced the stock of good muskets. many of those still in possession of the troops had been ruined by their unskillful handling.

the supply of regimental officers was utterly inadequate to the demand. the bravest and the best are usually the first to fall; the boldest and most venturesome the most liable to capture. perhaps, if the emperor had broken up his guard and distributed the veterans among the raw troops, the effect might have been better, but in that case he would have destroyed his main reliance in his army. no, it was better to keep the guard together at all hazards. it had already been drawn heavily upon for officers for other corps.

war was popularly supposed to be a thing of dashing adventure, of victory, and plunder. it had been all that before. experience had thrust them all unprepared face to face with the naked reality of defeat, disease, weary marches over awful roads in freezing cold, in drifting snow, or in sodden mire. they had no guns, they had little food, thank god, there was some clothing, such as it was, but even the best uniforms were not calculated to stand such strains as had been imposed upon these.

only the old guard, staunch, stern, splendid, indomitable, a magnificent body of men, held the army together—they and the cavalry. murat, peerless horseman, was playing the traitor to save his wretched neapolitan throne. but grouchy, nansouty, sebastiani and others remained. conditions were bad in the cavalry, but they were not so bad as they were in the infantry. and druot of the artillery also kept it together in the retreat. guns, cannon, were more precious almost than men.

now early that morning, while it was yet dark, they were called up from their broken sleep to undertake what to them was another purposeless march. even the eagles drooped in the hands of their bearers. the soldiers did not know, they could not see. the great high roads that led to paris were being abandoned; they were plunging into unfathomable morasses; they were being led through dark, gloomy, dreadful woods to the northward. where? for what purpose? the dumb, wrathful, insubordinate, despairful army indeed moved at the will of its master, but largely because it realized that it could not stay where it was, and largely because it was better to move on and die than to lie down and die. they were at least warmer on the march!

the spirit of the guard and of the subordinate officers, say from the colonels down, was good enough, but the generals and the marshals were sick of fighting. they had had enough of it. they had gained all that they could gain in their world-wide campaigns, in fame, money, titles, estates. they had everything to lose and nothing to win. they wanted rest, an opportunity to enjoy. some of them were devoted to the emperor, in fact, all of them were, but their own comfort and self-interest bulked larger and larger before them. they saw nothing but defeat at the end of their endeavors, and they wanted to negotiate peace with such honor as could be had while they were still a force to be reckoned with.

their unwillingness and mutinous spirit, however, had not yet reached its highest development. that came later, and brought treachery in its train. the awful will of the emperor still overruled them. wrathfully, insubordinately, protestingly, they still marched when he gave the word.

the emperor had been working with that furious concentration which he alone of all men seemed to be able to bring about, and which was one of the secrets of his power. orders borne by couriers had streamed in all directions over the roads. napoleon was about to undertake the most daring and marvelous campaign of his whole history. the stimulus of despair, the certainty of ruin unless the advance of the allies could be stayed, had at last awakened his dormant energies, filled his veins with the fire of youth and spring.

with that comprehensive eye which made him the master of battlefields and nations he had forseen everything. soldiers were coming from spain. he had given instructions to magnify their number and their strength. he shrewdly surmised that their appearance on the left flank would cause the cautious schwarzenberg to pause, to withdraw his flankers, to mass to meet them. there would be a halt in the advance. the allies still feared the emperor. although much of his prestige was gone, they never made little of napoleon. he intended to leave some of the best troops to confront schwarzenberg between nogent and montereau, under victor and oudinot, hard fighters both, with instructions not to engage in any decisive battle, not to allow themselves to be trapped into that, but to stand on the defensive, to hold the river seine, to retreat foot by foot, if pressed, to take advantage of every cover, to hold the enemy in check, to contest every foot of the way, to assume a strength which they did not have.

he promised that so soon as he had fallen upon blücher he would send the news and see that it got to schwarzenberg and the allied monarchs who were with him. reverses which he hoped to inflict on the prussian field marshal would increase the austrian hesitation. the emperor believed that the pressure by oudinot and victor would be effective. they would draw in their columns and concentrate.

after he had finished with blücher and his army, he intended to retrace his steps and do the same thing with schwarzenberg. of course, if he failed with blücher it was all over. he was the last hope of france—he and his army. if his magnificent dash at the prussians and russians was not successful, nothing could delay the end. napoleon was staking all on the throw, taking the gambler's chance, taking it recklessly, accepting the hazard, but neglecting no means to insure the winning of the game.

the emperor flung a screen of cavalry in front of marmont, to patrol every village, to control every farmhouse, to see that no news of his advance came to the unsuspecting old prussian. and then he himself stayed back in nogent to see his own orders carried out. he personally inspected every division, as it marched to the front through the waning night, the cheerless dawn, the gray dark day. it cut him to the heart to see his soldiers go so silently and so sullenly. here and there a regiment did cry: "vive l'empereur"; here and there a voice sounded it, but in the main the men marched dumbly, doggedly. it was only the old guard that gave him the imperial salute in full voice in the old way.

nothing indicated to the emperor more thoroughly the temper of the soldiers than that open indifference. why, even in russia, ere their stiffened lips froze into silence, they had breathed out the old acclaim. the emperor remembered that grenadier who, when told by the surgeon that he feared to probe for a ball that had pierced his breast because he did not know what he would find, "if you probe deep enough to reach my heart," said the soldier with his dying breath, "you will find the emperor."

grave-faced and frowning, shivering from time to time in the fierce, raw cold, the emperor watched the troops march by. well, the day after to-morrow, if there were any left, they would acclaim him loud enough. the emperor was cold and cynical. he had never allowed the life of men to stand in the way of his desires, but even his iron nerve, his icy indifference had been shaken. he gave no outward evidence of it, but in his heart he realized more plainly than ever before that when these were gone there were no more. and so, perhaps, his shudder was not altogether due to the cold.

whatever his emotions, he steeled his heart, he made his preparations for the last try with fortune, the last card to be played, the last die to be thrown. what would be the end of it? what would be the result of that final desperate game? the emperor was a master player—could even his finesse and skill and talent and genius make up for the poor hand that had been dealt him because the pack had been so drawn upon that the good cards had been exhausted, used up, long since?

did the emperor realize that even he was not what he had been? did he comprehend that he was no longer the soldier, the man, of the past? did he realize that at last he had tried the patience of that fortune he had worshiped, beyond the limit; and that whatever favor might be vouchsafed him would only delay the end?

the boys might march and fight, the old guard might sustain its ancient fame, the genius of the emperor might flash out in full effulgence once more—and it would make no difference. the stars on their courses fought against sisera. the doom sentence was written. postponement he might look forward to, but no final stay of judgment! a few thousand more lives he might throw away, but these late sacrifices would avail nothing. oh, no; the emperor's shudder was not altogether due to the cold that winter morning.