At one stated hour in the day, a tall, handsome, distinguished,
middle-aged man, wearing for the occasion the uniform of a colonel in
the Imperial Guard, a blood-stained, tarnished, battered, battle-worn
uniform, be it observed, comes into the room. He is more often than
not attended by a lovely lady of beauty and grace, in spite of her
years, who leads with either hand a handsome youth and a beautiful
maiden. The four soldiers are always present in full uniform under the
command of their sergeant at this hour. As the officer enters they
form line, come to attention, and present arms, a salute he gravely and
punctiliously acknowledges. Attendants follow, bearing decanters and
glasses; wine for the officer and his family, something stronger for
the soldiers. The glasses are filled. With her own fair hands, the
lady hands them to the men. When all are ready the officer holds up
his glass. The men, stacking arms, do the same. The eyes of all
glance upward. Above the eagle and the flag upon a shelf upon the wall
stands a marble head, product of Canova's marvelous chisel. It is
Napoleon. White it gleams against the dark stone of the old hall. At
a nod the soldiers face about, and----

"_Vive l'Empereur_," says the officer quietly.

"_Vive l'Empereur_," in deep and solemn tones repeats the old sergeant.

"_Vive l'Empereur_," comes from the lips of the four soldiers, and even
the woman and the young people join in that ancient acclaim.

The great Emperor is dead long since. He sleeps beneath the willows in
the low valley in the lonely, far-off, wave-washed islet of St. Helena.
But to these men he will never die. It is their blood that is upon
that eagle staff. It was in their hands that it received those wounds.
While they carried it, flung to the breeze of battle, it was shot-torn
and storm-riven. It is a priceless treasure to them all. As they
followed it with the ardor and devotion of youth so they now guard it
and respect it with the steadier but not less intense consecration of
maturity and old age.

The eagle of a vanished empire, the emblem of a fame that is past. It
is as real to them as when into the hands of one of them it was given
by the Emperor himself on the Champ de Mars so long ago when he was
lord of the world. And so long as they live they will love it,
reverence it, guard it, salute it as in the past.

BOOK I

THE EMPEROR AT BAY

CHAPTER I

BEARERS OF EVIL TIDINGS