Moscow: A Story of the French Invasion of 1812

"I think none the worse of you for your patriotism," said Henri good-naturedly, seeing that the girl was much distressed. "But neither should you think ill of us who are also patriots from the other side of the hedge. Political aspects depend upon the point of view. You are excited. You will see all this differently when you think matters over in cold blood."

If Vera had been less miserable she would scarcely have spoken to Henri as she did, but Henri was a good-natured person and made allowances. He guessed the mingled emotions stirring in Vera's heart at this moment, for Vera had always been a good Russian, taking the part of her countrymen in the many bantering arguments in which the family frequently indulged at the expense of Russian bears, autocrats, barbarous moujiks, knouts, serfs and kindred matters. In such arguments Vera had often, to the delight of Henri and her other cousins, almost lost herself in indignant defence of her countrymen. Now, he knew, great fires of patriotic fervour must be ablaze within her, since the picture before her mind's eye was not that of an equal war in which either side might gain the advantage, but of a helpless, or semi-helpless, State, over which stood the gigantic figure of conquering Napoleon, a drawn sword in his hand, ready to shed the life-blood of her beloved nation. And in addition to this trouble, and aggravating it twofold, Henri fully believed, there was Paul.

Henri had quite made up his mind, much to his own gratification, for he was fond of his cousin and Paul was his chief friend, that these two were in love with one another. He had endeavoured, though vainly, to assure Paul that this was so.

"Any fool can see it," he had said; "cheer up, man; Vera is a ripe fruit, ready to fall into your mouth when you open it to ask her."

"I have asked her several times," said Paul; "you know that. She used to say she is engaged to some Russian."

"Oh, that old fable!" Henri laughed. "Well, has she dropped it lately?"

"She has not mentioned it, certainly, of late, but–"

"Very well then. It was a very good excuse while she wanted one. My argument is that she requires an excuse no longer. Ask her again before the Ambassadors leave Paris."

Paul accepted this advice. He generally resented advice, and hated to be preached at and interfered with, but he was always ready to take more from his friend than from any one else.

"I have come to say farewell, Mademoiselle," he said, calling at the half-dismantled embassy. "It is time you allowed me to know how I stand with you. That I love you with all my heart you are well aware."

"Monsieur—alas! It is not the moment to discuss such things. Let us try to part in friendship. If matters had been otherwise, I know not but that in time I might possibly have answered differently; as it is–" Vera paused.

"You are referring, doubtless, to your contract of affiance. Mademoiselle Vera, let me assure you that such a contract–"

"Bah! This is not a moment for deceptions, Monsieur; be sure that contract or no contract, I shall marry no one against my will."

"So far good, Mademoiselle Vera. To what, then, do you refer? With one hand you seem to give me hope; with the other you take it away again. What is between us, Mademoiselle? I am rich, I love you as I have never loved woman. Is not this enough for you? What stands between us?"

"Perhaps everything and perhaps nothing," said Vera with a great sigh. "You say you love me; God forgive me, for I know well that I ought to reject your love, yet I hesitate to reject it."

"Why then," exclaimed Paul joyously—he was about to take her to his arms, but Vera waved him away. "Why, what do you mean, Vera?" he continued impatiently. "Why must God forgive you because I love you? I am not a leper; you will easily be forgiven! Explain—you madden me."

"Can you not understand, Monsieur? See, I allow you to say 'I love you'—yet you are the enemy of my country; what will be said of me if it is known that I have done this shameful thing? To have submitted to be loved by one who is about to invade the land of my fathers–"

"Well—but—Mademoiselle, for God's sake let us understand one another," cried Paul, "Here stand I, professing to love you. Am I not to be loved again because I am a soldier of Napoleon? As soon I might say that I must not love a subject of Alexander. Your patriotism is delightful; I love you the better for it, but your conclusion is ridiculous."

"What would you have, Paul? I do not know my own mind. I like you; it is possible that one day I may be able to say that I love you. I am young; I am not yet sure what is love and what is 'like'. Is it not enough?"

"No, a thousand times no! I must possess you—hold you—caress you—release you only when the last moment arrives, under promise that when we meet in Moscow–"

This was an unfortunate remark on Paul's part. Vera fired up instantly, receding a step or two from him, for Paul had approached and held her tenderly by the elbows, ready to take her to his arms if permitted to do so.

"When we meet in Moscow?" she cried. "God send that may never be, never, never! Sooner I would never see you again than meet you, as you suggest, in Moscow. Do you think I do not realise what you mean by meeting in Moscow? I tell you, Paul, God forbid that I meet you there!"

Paul recoiled a little, abashed. "I apologise, Mademoiselle," he said; "of course I should not have permitted myself to use so foolish an expression. When the war is over, I should have said."

"When the war is over, love may begin or may not," Vera replied. "This is not the time to speak of love. I will not shame myself a second time. Go, Paul—I am a traitor to have said what I said—forget it—farewell!"

"I swear I will never forget it," said Paul. "You are cruel, Vera; I do not understand your attitude; you are not like a woman!"

"I am a Russian; my heart bleeds for my country which lies under the shadow of Napoleon and his Grand Army, of which you are a member. It is hateful of me to have spoken of love with a French soldier. Go, Paul, I entreat you." She held out her hand, Paul bent over and kissed it. Then he left the room without a word.

CHAPTER XI

At the Palais d'armes of old Pierre Dupré there was excitement. Both Karl Havet, Marie's fiancé, and young Maux, the second assistant, had received their conscription notices; both had been drawn; unless physically unfit or unsound, both men must serve in Napoleon's new and greatest army.

Maux was in excellent spirits. Being a splendidly built young fellow, lithe and strong as a leopard, there was no doubt whatever as to his fitness.

"I shall come back a sergeant, Monsieur," he said; "you shall see; it may even be that I shall gain a commission in the field—such things have happened before now!"

Old Pierre nodded approvingly. "You are going forth in the proper spirit, my son," he said; then he glanced sadly at Karl Havet, who sat with Marie conversing dejectedly over his conscription notice, and sighed. "Would it were the same there!" he added.

Louise fired up and spoke.

"You are not fair to them, father," she said. "You have no sympathy for the natural feelings. They were to be married in a month; they love one another; it is hard for them. If you were generous you would furnish a substitute for Karl."

"Mon Dieu, Louise, is it you that talk thus, you?" exclaimed the old man; "then indeed I do not recognise my own child. A substitute, when the Emperor has called him to arms? Shame!"

"It will break Marie's heart, be sure of that; she has been a good daughter to you, father; it is due to her that you should assist her in this emergency. Karl has no money to pay for a substitute—you have plenty. Let him stay a while at least with his wife. Be sure this will not be the last war; so long as the Emperor lives and Europe is not yet a province of France, there will be wars and wars. It is not right that they should be separated."

"Bah—you speak foolishly, like a woman; you disappoint me, Louise, you that have ever shown a spirit above that of a woman. As for separation, if Marie is so foolish as to depend upon the presence of a lover for her happiness, why should they be separated? Let her go also!"

"Father, what do you mean?" said Louise, gazing blankly at the old man; "do you rave?"

"On the contrary, never was I more serious. Marie is as good a man as the best; she lacks but the pantaloons—eh bien! There are many fools under conscription orders who will be glad of a substitute. Let her go to the war with her Karl, since they dread separation; she will be the happier and the richer too, for she will touch the money of some coward or fool who is ready to pay for his own dishonour—voilà tout!"

"And you, father, could your mind rest in peace if your child were exposed thus to the risks of war?"

Old Pierre started from his seat with an exclamation of impatience.

"Sapristi, Louise my child, you grow more foolish each minute! Do you not know that it is the one grievance of my life that I have no sons to fight for France? If I had a son and he went forth to battle, think you I should sit at home to weep in anguish of anxiety until he returned safely to the fireside? God forbid; I should thank Him daily, each minute, that I, too, had been found worthy to provide one soldier for France. Why then should I feel differently if I possessed a daughter who, thanks to her own fine spirit and to the training I have given her, had risen superior to the weakness of her sex and gone forth as a man to do a man's work in the world? I should thank God all the more—yes, and I should love my child the more, more by a hundred times."

Louise was silent. Now that her father explained his view of the matter she recognised that it was, after all, perfectly consistent with his character that he should think thus. That any one else should think the same way, however, was quite a different matter. Marie, for instance, would probably consider the idea a ridiculous one; her fiancé, Karl, was certain to laugh the suggestion to scorn, and yet Louise, to her surprise, found that she herself had listened to her father's words without the impatient amazement which so wild a proposal might have aroused in her. To her mind, trained as she had been, the idea of a woman assuming the dress of a man and enlisting as a man in the army of her country was neither absolutely new nor absolutely impossible. Louise knew, almost by heart, the story of Mademoiselle de Maupin, who had done this very thing a century ago; her career was a favourite theme of old Pierre's, who had drummed it into the ears of his daughters since they were children. Certainly if any woman could imitate Mademoiselle de Maupin with success, it was Marie. But Marie was in love and about to be married; she possessed no longer the manly spirit which would render such a thing possible, and Karl would certainly reject the idea.

"Suggest to them your scheme, father," she said; "but I warn you that they will not receive it seriously."

Marie flushed a little when the strange idea was mentioned to her; then she laughed and asked Karl what he thought of it.

"It is madness," said Karl, glancing indignantly at old Pierre. "That a man who loves a woman, whether as father or lover, should be willing to submit her to the shame and the thousand risks involved in such a scheme, is madness and worse. Thank God, I am not so selfish, Marie. Rather a million times, I will go alone."

Old Pierre shrugged his shoulders. "As you like," he said. "It is my misfortune. What other reply should I expect from a man who goes out unwillingly to serve his country?"

"As for that," said Karl boldly, "if I possessed money I should certainly procure a substitute; having none, I must go; it is hard, Marie, but—que faire? it is necessity that drives us apart."

Marie burst into tears and the unfortunate lovers left the room together.

"Bah!" said old Pierre, not untouched by his daughter's sorrow. "It is a misfortune—it is a disaster; see, Louise, how this foolish weakness called 'love' spoils not only a splendid woman, but a good man also. Karl is not a coward, and yet–"

"No—Karl is no coward, and Marie still less," said Louise, perfectly miserable. "Father, let a substitute be found—it is hard for them! You do not grudge the money, that I know!"