Moscow: A Story of the French Invasion of 1812

"My Henri, be calm and listen. My father sent me to you with a suggestion; you are to fight for me with this Michel–" Henri interrupted with a roar of laughter.

"Oh, oh! poor Michel! he is doomed! I shall fight like a fiend from hell, if it is for you, ma mie; moreover, he is—you say—on our side! What a foolish fight will this be!"

"Michel is a good fencer, he has few equals. What if he should slay you, my beloved, for—if I remember rightly—you have not more than a passable hand with the rapier."

"Bah! in such a cause I would overthrow even Louise herself," Henri laughed; "but will Michel fight?"

"It—it shall be arranged; he shall slip and you shall disarm him—neither shall be hurt." Louise blushed and became agitated. "Go down, chérie, to the salon d'armes, you know it of old, and there Michel shall meet you. Adieu, until—until Michel is overthrown."

Henri laughed and embraced the girl. "Adieu, then," he said, "until then—bid Michel be quick!"

The salon d'armes was empty when Henri entered it. He busied himself in examining and testing the rapiers upon the walls. A sound presently attracted his attention and he looked round.

Louise stood in the arena, rapier in hand; she wore her fencing dress; her face was crimson with blushes; she seemed too agitated to speak.

"What is this, chérie, where is Michel Prevost?" asked Henri.

Louise replied, murmuring so softly that he could scarcely catch her words.

"Michel is here," she whispered. "Oh, my beloved, are you so blind? Michel is here, but his uniform he will never wear again; oh, Henri be kind to me for the love of Heaven, for I am ashamed."

CHAPTER XXXI

The terrible war of 1812 was over, and Russia had shaken herself free of the last Frenchman. Already the Tsar Alexander had taken in hand preparations for the terrible vengeance which was to be exacted from his arch-enemy. Moscow was being rapidly rebuilt; the Russian workman, equipped with axe alone, is able to do wonders in the matter of building up a structure of wooden beams. In front of the Senate house was already beginning to accumulate that immense collection of cannon captured from or abandoned by the Grand Army, which may still be seen by visitors to the Kremlin. Of these nearly 370 are French, 190 Austrian, 120 Prussian, 50 from the German States, over 100 Italian and some 35 to 40 Spanish, Dutch and Polish; over 800 items of evidence to the anguish of the great retreat.

The prevailing sense throughout Russia was that of profound devotional gratitude to the God of Battles, not unmingled with a feeling of jubilant pride in the nation's prowess, and of passionate affection for the Tsar Alexander himself, whose courage and wisdom had shown themselves pre-eminent qualities from first to last, and of respect and admiration for those of his Generals, and for Count Rostopchin, Governor of Moscow, who had distinguished themselves in the defence of their beloved country.

Alexander himself was undoubtedly the hero of the hour. At the annual reception of the cadet corps in St. Petersburg, a function to which the reader of this history has been introduced on a former occasion, his advent was awaited with the greatest excitement. A laurel crown was to be laid at his feet by a deputation of beautiful women, of whom Vera was one. "Bozhé Tsaryá Chranee," the National Anthem, was to be sung by cadets and guests, as it had never been sung before; all the world was on the tiptoe of expectation.

Vera moved across the room, supporting upon her arm a limping, decrepit-looking figure, one of many who limped among the august company present that day. Old Countess Maximof sat and watched them. She nudged her nearest neighbour, a motherly old person dressed in gorgeous attire.

"See them—are they not a lovely pair?" she said. "It has taken me some time to forgive Vera the impropriety of remaining in Moscow throughout the trouble, but she has been so good to my Sasha that who could have held out for ever?" The other gazed at Vera through her double eyeglasses.

"Hah! remaining in Moscow! Many unkind things were said of her upon that account, I remember. She had friends among the French officers—old acquaintances in Paris—that was the chief indictment. That will all be forgiven and forgotten. Yes, she is beautiful. Your son might have done worse!"

Vera and Sasha talked and laughed together, they appeared to be radiantly happy.

"It is only four years ago that we met here," Vera whispered, "and at that time you were still a victim to the follies of cadetdom—do you remember how–"

"Shall I never be forgiven that expression?" Sasha laughed.

"Oh, droog moy, let us remember it to our everlasting gaiety; let us remember also how you had no leisure to be presented to your little fiancée; she was too young and too ugly, and Mademoiselle Kornilof was at the same time so fascinating; and oh, mon Dieu, the conceit of the good-looking cadet whom poor I was obliged to adore from afar!"

"Ah, you did not adore me, that is not true, dooshá moyá; come, confess that at that moment you detested me!"

"Perhaps I tried to think so; but there was a something deep down in my heart that was certainly not hatred. It has lurked there ever since. If you had shown a liking for me that day, it might never have existed, but when you gave me the cold shoulder it came and with it a kind of determination that you should repent in sackcloth and ashes; that you should sue–"

"Little tyrant! you exacted a terrible revenge! Oh, the hours of misery you have caused me, you and your French admirers."

"Ah! poor Paul!"

"Frankly, Vera, were you ever near to loving him?"

"Never so near as when he befriended you on the battlefield." Sasha's fingers closed tightly over his companion's arm. He had never thought it necessary to inform Vera that Paul had very nearly killed him before befriending him, nor did Vera ever learn that it was he who had dealt the blow which went so near to widowing her heart for ever.

Vera was much observed at this time. She was more beautiful than ever. Sorrow and suffering had added something to her loveliness. Her story was known to most of those present and rendered her an interesting personality, for the Russian dearly loves a romantic tale. This afternoon there were many lips that told of the baby-betrothal of these two, of Vera's Parisian experiences, of her patriotism, of her finding and nursing the Russian lover, her childhood's fiancé, and of his triumph over all rivals, French and otherwise.

Even the Tsar, when at last he made his triumphal entry into the hall and had received the laurel tribute prepared for him and listened to the splendid soulful rendering of the National Anthem, presently noticed the beautiful girl in constant attendance upon young Count Maximof, whom he knew.

"Who is she?" he asked—"she is beautifully dressed—one would say she was French—but her face is Russian, of our loveliest type."

"It is the daughter of Demidof, your Majesty's envoy at present at the Court of Sweden," the Tsar was informed.

"What, the beautiful Russian maiden who was said to have inflamed the hearts of half the youth of Paris?" the Tsar laughed. "Has she then decided, at last, in favour of a Russian admirer?"

"Not only so, Sire, but of one who was betrothed to her in childhood—perhaps your Majesty remembers the story. It was said that they had agreed to annihilate the contract entered into, perhaps, in a moment of conviviality by their respective fathers; but the end of the story is most romantic; the lady sought and found her lover upon the battlefield outside Moscow at the village of Pavlova; there she nursed him back to life, and—at his request, for he believed himself to be dying—actually married him as he lay gasping in a peasants hut."

"Chort Vosmee!" laughed the Tsar, "that is a good story; what, and they have not disagreed, since he recovered? That kind of marriage might prove a more serious matter than the foolish betrothal contract!"

"They seem good friends, Sire, if one may judge from appearances!" said the other.

Afterwards Vera, to her astonishment and delight, though perhaps also somewhat to her consternation, was informed by his aide-de-camp that the Tsar would dance with her.

She went through the ordeal of that stately quadrille excellently well, however, entertaining and delighting the Tsar with an account of how Sasha had stolen a march upon her by persuading her to marry him as he lay dying—which she did, she explained, to oblige a friend—afterwards recovering when he certainly had no right to do so.

"You are caught now, Madame," said the Tsar; "will the caged bird beat herself against the bars of her prison?"

"Your Majesty must ask me a year hence," Vera laughed; "at present I am a new toy, and my jailer is content to play with me!" The Tsar laughed again.

"By the Saints, Madame, if he should show signs of falling short in his appreciation of his good fortune, you shall tell me and he shall be sent to Siberia. Such a man would deserve his fate."

"It may be, your Majesty, that he married me out of patriotic motives in order to prevent my falling into French hands."

"Good—good! it was a worthy act and shall be rewarded," said the Tsar, smiling kindly. "Adieu, Madame; we shall meet again I trust."

On the following morning Vera received a beautiful present from his Majesty: an order, the collar of St. Anne, commonly known in Russia as "Annooshka na shay". The gold cross attached to the collar was inscribed "For Patriotism".

Sasha at the same time obtained, what was at the moment the object of every young Russian officer's ambition, a captain's commission in the new regiment of Imperial Guards lately organised by his Majesty. Not long after this Vera received a letter from Paris. It was brought by hand by a Russian prisoner returning to his native country. The packet contained a gilt-edged card, upon which was printed:—

Mons. le Baron Henri d'Estreville

Madame la Baronne Henri d'Estreville

(née Louise Dupré)

To which was added, written in a woman's hand:—

"En suite le Capitaine d'infanterie Michel Prevost, qui vous fait part, belle cousine, de sa mort."