ut to unfasten
the horses.

"You are impatient, Prince," said the Emperor almost gaily, as he strode
with a firm step to the door. "You are afraid those cursed Prussians
will put the Corsican ogre into a cage and send him at once to His
Victorious Bourbon Majesty King Louis XVIII. Not so, my good Berthier,
not so. The Star of my Destiny has not yet declined. I've done all the
thinking I wanted to do. Now we'll to Genappe, where we'll rally the
remnants of our army and then quietly await de Marmont's return with the
millions which we want. After that we'll boldly on to Paris and defy my
enemies there . . . En avant, Marechal! the Corsican ogre is not in the
iron cage yet!"

Outside Bertrand was holding his stirrup for him. He swung himself
lightly in the saddle and turned out of the farmyard gate into the open,
throwing back his head and sniffing the storm-laden air as if he was
about to lead his army to one of his victorious charges. Not waiting to
see how close the other two men followed him, he put his horse at once
at a gallop.

He rode on--never pausing--never looking round even on that gigantic
desolation which the cold light of the moon weirdly and fitfully
revealed--his mind was fixed upon a fresh throw on the gaming table of
the world.

Overhead the storm-driven clouds chased one another with unflagging fury
across the moonlit sky, now obscuring, now revealing that gigantic
dissolution of the Grand Army, so like the melting of ice and frost
under the fierce kiss of the sun.

More than men in an attack, less than women in a retreat, the finest
cavalry Europe had ever seen was flying like sand before the wind: but
the somnambulist rode on in his sleep, forgetting that on these vast and
billowing fields twenty-six thousand gallant French heroes had died for
the sake of his dreams.

Bertrand and the Prince of Wagram followed--gloomy and silent--they knew
that all suggestions would be useless, all saner advice remain unheeded.
Besides, de Marmont had gone, and after all, what did it all matter?
What did anything matter, now that Empire, glory, hope, everything were
irretrievably lost?

And in faithful Bertrand's deep-set eyes there came a strange, far-off
look, almost of premonition, as if in his mind he could already see that
lonely island rock in the Atlantic, and the great gambler there, eating
out his heart with vain and bitter regrets.

II

But de Marmont had never had any doubts, never any forebo