ed, eliminated, defeated in detail. There was now nothing for
the Field Marshal to do but to retreat and rally his men. The success
of the Emperor had been brilliant in the extreme.

The fighting was not over, however, for thirty miles to the southward
lay the vast army of Schwarzenberg. Napoleon might have pursued
Bluecher to the bitter end. Military critics say he should have done
so. To him, however, on the spot, it seemed proper to leave Bluecher
for the time being and endeavor to repeat on Schwarzenberg the
marvelous tactics of the five days' fight.

The next morning, the fifteenth, he started back to Nogent whence he
had come. Victor and Oudinot had been fighting hard with
Schwarzenberg, but the news of Napoleon's victories had finally caused
the cautious Austrian to stop. He began the recall and concentration
of his own scattered divisions. He, at least, would not be caught
napping. As usual the enemy learned something, even in defeat.

Speed was still essential to Napoleon. His men had had twenty-four
hours of rest. His horses were comparatively fresh. The weather had
changed, the roads were frozen, horribly rough, but still much more
passable than before. Once again the Emperor resorted to the
peasantry. They, too, had been intoxicated with the news of his
victories, many of which they had witnessed and, in the plunder
resulting, had shared. They brought their horses which they had hidden
in ravines and forests when the country was overrun by the enemy. This
time, instead of attaching them to the guns which their own
teams--recruited from the captures--could draw on the hard roads,
Napoleon had them hitched to the big farm wagons. Into the wagons he
loaded his infantry. And at the highest speed of the horses the whole
force made its way to the southward. To other victories--to
defeats--to what?

The Emperor began once again to dream of an empire whose boundaries
would be the Vistula instead of the Rhine.

BOOK II

THE EAGLE'S FLIGHT

CHAPTER XV

THE BRIDGE AT ARCIS

The long journey was at last over. The last Alp had been surmounted,
the last pass traversed. Behind them rose the snowy summit of mighty
Mont Blanc itself. Before them lay their wearying journey's end. It
was cold even in sunny Southern France on that morning in early spring.
Marteau, his uniform worn, frayed, travel-stained, and dusty, his
close-wrapped precious parcel held to his breast under his shabby