not drive him at once from
Moscow. He lingered for more than a month amid its ruins, in the vain
hope that the czar would ask him for terms of peace. But the czar kept
silent, the city was untenable for winter-quarters, and retreat became
imperative. When, at length, the grand army marched, winter marched with
it,--a winter such as even Russia had rarely seen. Napoleon had delayed
too long. The north gathered its forces and swooped upon his shivering
ranks, with death in its blasts. The Russians, recovering from their
losses, rushed upon his freezing columns, pouring destruction upon them
as they marched. All was at an end. The great victor's tide of success
had definitely turned. He had entered Russia with nearly half a million
of men; hardly a tenth part of this great army followed him from that
fatal land.

_NAPOLEON'S RETURN FROM ELBA._

All was quiet in Elba. Nothing was talked of at Porto-Ferrajo but the
ball to be given by Pauline, the sister of Napoleon, who had exchanged
his imperial dominion over half Europe for kingship over that little
Mediterranean island. Evening came. The fete was a brilliant one.
Napoleon was present, gay, cheerful, easy, to all appearance fully
satisfied with his little kingdom, and without thought of wider empire
or heavier cares. He stayed till a late hour, and went home with two of
his old generals, Bertrand and Drouet, to tell them the news which had
come to him from the continent. This news was not altogether to his
liking. The Congress at Vienna had decreed his transportation to the
Azores. Elba was too near France.

Such was the state of affairs on the night of February 25, 1815. At
sunset of the next day there might have been seen a small flotilla
moving before a south wind along the shores of Elba. It consisted of a
brig, the Inconstant by name, a schooner, and five smaller vessels. The
brig evidently carried guns. The decks of the other vessels were crowded
with men in uniform. On the deck of the Inconstant stood Napoleon, his
face filled with hope and joy, his hand waving an adieu to his sister
Pauline, who watched him from the chateau windows, on the island shore.

The next day came. The sea was motionless. Not a breath of wind could be
felt. The island was still close at hand. At a distance might be seen
the French and English cruisers which guarded that side of the island,
now moveless upon a moveless sea. It was doubtful if the flotilla had
not better return.