The Czar: A Tale of the Time of the First Napoleon/Chapter 23
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE MOSCOW MEDAL.
" Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!"
THE very next day Henri de Talmont was removed from the horrible Convent of St. Basil to one of the other hospitals of the town—in which, indeed, every palace, every public building sufficiently large, was now being transformed into a hospital. As he passed through the streets, he observed that large fires were burning in all the thoroughfares; and the Russian physician who took charge of the party of invalids told them this was done to purify the air and to destroy infection.
A delicious sensation of rest stole over the weary frame of Henri when at last he found himself lying on a comfortable pallet, in a clean, well-warmed room. Nourishment sufficient for his need and suitable to his weak condition was given him with a willing hand. He had escaped the deadly hospital fever, but the prostration of his strength was excessive, the vital forces seemed exhausted. For many days he lay in a kind of contented apathy, slumbering continually, and even when not asleep floating in hazy dreams amongst vague remembrances of the past. Once or twice he roused himself sufficiently to make some inquiry after his fellow-sufferers. "Be at rest," said his nurse. "All are cared for now; just as well as the wounded Russians." But he used to waken up thoroughly whenever the Emperor came to inspect the hospital where he lay. He would watch with pathetic eagerness for a word, even for a look, from him, and live upon the recollection until his next visit. To most of the other French prisoners the person of their benefactor remained unknown; and as Alexander moved in and out amongst them, listening to their complaints, ministering to their needs, and speaking words of comfort, they took him generally for the aide-de-camp of St. Priest.
One day Henri, feeling rather stronger than usual, observed with interest a handsome, splendidly-equipped young Russian, who had come to visit one of his countrymen in the same ward. The conversation, carried on in their own language, was unintelligible to Henri; but something in the face of the visitor touched a chord of memory. The Russian, seeing the sick Frenchman look at him earnestly, and as he thought imploringly, came to his side and asked kindly in French, "Can I do anything for you?"
"No, sir, no; I thank you. I have everything I want. Stay though," he added with a slight increase of animation; "I should like to know, if you will be good enough to tell me, how the Grand Duke is to-day."
Strange to say, the eccentric, passionate Constantine, at other times even wantonly cruel, was now so wrought upon by the example and influence of the brother he adored that he emulated his works of mercy, and had actually caught the hospital fever in his ministrations to the prisoners. Alexander himself seemed to bear a charmed life through every peril; for God fulfilled unto his servant the word upon which he had caused him to hope: "A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee."
The Russian answered, "He is much better. Dr. Wylie has pronounced him out of danger. You know Dr. Wylie?"
"Yes; he comes here often. He examined me one day, and said he would like to bleed me, only I was too weak."
The Russian could not suppress a smile. "You enjoyed a most unusual exemption," he said. "Dr. Wylie's lancet is not easily escaped. But I hope, as you have been so fortunate, that you are growing stronger?"
"I scarcely know. I ought to be; for I am not in pain, not hungry, not cold. All that is so strange now, so pleasant. But, pardon me, have I not seen your face before? Where can it have been?"
"I do not remember yours," was the answer. That was not wonderful; for Henri was a melancholy shadow of his former self, with ghastly, shrunken features, and frame reduced to a skeleton. The hardships of a very severe campaign had told also upon Ivan Pojarsky, but in a different way; he looked bronzed and weather-beaten, and much older than he really was.
"I remember now," Henri resumed after a pause. "I saw you during the Occupation, in a church in Moscow. After the service some Russians attacked me, and I might have been killed, but for that brave fellow with one hand. He appealed to you, and you protected me. Ah!" he added with a sigh, "if I had known then what sufferings were before me, I might have prayed you to plunge your sword into my breast!"
"I am glad to find you amongst the living," Ivan said kindly.
"And that day," mused Henri, "was little more than three months ago, while it is but two since we left Moscow. Were there ever two such months since the beginning of the world?"
"Of suffering?—I think not," said Ivan thoughtfully, as he took a seat beside him.
"Of suffering for us, of glory for you. How you must triumph, you Russians! Five months ago Napoleon crossed your border with half a million of men; and now the miserable remains of that splendid host are dying in your hospitals, pensioners of your bounty. Surely such an overthrow was never seen since Pharaoh and his armies perished in the waters of the Red Sea!"
"How we triumph, we Russians!" Ivan repeated. "Should you like to know how? Our Emperor said the other day in confidence to a friend, 'This miserable campaign has cost me ten years of my life!'"
"Miserable! when it has been for him and his one long glorious victory!"
"True; but the sufferings he has witnessed have well-nigh broken his heart."
"The sufferings of his enemies," said Henri, as tears filled his eyes.
"They have so cast our own into the shade, that we ourselves almost forget them. Yet you must not think we have suffered nothing. Remember Moscow, our beautiful, our holy city; remember Borodino and the other battles in which the best blood of our country was poured out like water. Moreover, the ice-king has thinned our ranks as well as yours."
"Ah! not so fatally."
"No; we had wholesome food, and warm clothing, and care and comforts for the sick. As a rule, our invalids recovered, while yours died. Yes, oh yes, God has surely given us a great deliverance; would it had been at less cost to others! Look here, monsieur,"—Ivan took a silver medal, new and bright, from his neck, where it hung attached to a sky-blue ribbon. "The Czar has just given one of these to every man who has borne part in this winter's campaign, from the general to the youngest recruit."
Henri examined it with interest. One side bore a Triangle surrounded by rays, and in its centre an Eye.
"What does that mean?" he inquired.
"It is, with us, the symbol of the Divine Presence," Ivan answered, crossing himself. "It typifies the All-seeing and Ever-present—the Three in One. Beneath, you read '1812,' the ever-memorable year when He himself interposed to deliver us. Now, turn the other side."
Henri did so, and saw, though he could not read, an inscription in the old Slavonic tongue.
"That is, translated literally, 'Not us! not us! but His Name!' In your French Bible—the same which I use also—the verse reads thus:—'Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name give glory.'"
"Beautiful!" said Henri; and as he gave back the medal, he looked with interest at the brilliant young Guardsman, who spoke in such a simple, manly, unaffected way of God's Word and Providence.
"To-morrow the Czar leaves this," said Ivan, replacing his medal. "We of the Chevalier Guard go also, of course."
Henri's cry of distress made all the sick men in the ward raise their heads.
"What is the matter?" Ivan asked compassionately.
"The Emperor is going!" Henri said, or rather sobbed, for so weak was he that he could not restrain his tears.
"You need not be afraid that will change anything, my poor friend. He has made arrangements for the safety and the comfort of all the prisoners. Henceforth they will want for nothing."
"I was not afraid of wanting food or shelter," Henri said. "But, M. le Garde, when I lay in that horrible prison, dying in black despair, it was his voice called me back from the gates of the grave, and showed me what the mercy of God was like. I would give half the little life left in me to hear that voice yet once again." After a pause he added, with an effort to control himself, "Still, he stayed among us longer than we could have dared to hope. Is he going home now?"
Ivan shook his head. "His work is not half done yet; nor ours," he said.
"What will you fight for now?" asked Henri with a sad smile. "For vengeance?"
"For peace," returned Ivan. "Shall I tell you what the Czar says about that? He speaks without anger or bitterness of your Emperor."
"Call him not mine," Henri interrupted, with a flush on his pale cheek. "Mine he never was. I am a Royalist."
"Well, then, of Napoleon. 'What a brilliant career,' said the Czar, 'that man might have run! He could have given peace to Europe—he could have done it; and he has not. Now the charm is broken.'"
"At least you Russians cannot regret that," said Henri with enthusiasm; "for the olive crown of the peace-maker which Napoleon has put aside awaits the brow of Alexander."
"So said the friend to whom the Czar was speaking.[1] 'If only peace is made,' was his answer, 'what does it matter by whom, whether by him, or by me, or by another?' It is a good time to think of peace," Ivan added. "To-morrow will be Christmas day, when peace and good-will upon earth were sung by the angels."
"To-morrow?" repeated Henri. "Am I dreaming? Surely I remember noticing that one of the first blessed, restful days I spent here was Christmas day."
"You forget," said Ivan with a smile, "that we Russians are behind the Western world by twelve days. Our Christmas is your feast of the Epiphany. After divine service to-morrow, the Czar begins his journey, and we follow."
"You do not accompany him?"
"No; he travels with far greater speed than we could do. For guards he never cares anything."
"Strange," said Henri "strange; and how perilous! Think of the country, overrun by war, swarming with stragglers from the army, with desperate characters of every kind!"
"He has no fears," returned Ivan; "nor we for him. Even our white-haired general, with all the caution of his seventy years, answered to some one who spoke as you do, 'Who could have the courage to harm him?'[2] But, my friend, I must go now, for it is late. Accept my best wishes for your recovery." He clasped Henri's hand warmly, and contrived to leave in it a few pieces of gold. Henri tried to remonstrate, but was quickly silenced. "Soldiers always help one another; that is a matter of course. If you like," added Ivan, with a touch of playful malice, "you can repay me after the first French victory. Good-bye."
"What a fine young fellow!" thought Ivan as he left the hospital; "so grateful and so patient. And I have forgotten even to ask his name! How thoughtless of me! Too late to return now. But I am sure he is well born, particularly since he calls himself a Royalist. Probably he belongs to one of those noble families of the old régime Napoleon delights to oppress and humble."
Over Ivan himself great changes had passed, and were passing even then. Perhaps his share in the foregoing conversation has already indicated these with sufficient clearness; if not, his conduct during the events that have yet to follow may complete the picture.
Amongst the works of faith and love which in all ages have been inspired by the precepts and the example of "the forgiving Christ," the labours of Alexander on behalf of his perishing enemies undoubtedly deserve a place. It is good for the world to keep such deeds in remembrance, although to those who do them the world's remembrance may avail but little. It was not the motive that inspired, nor will it be the reward that crowns them.
A few years later, at Cherson in the Crimea, Alexander stood beside the grave of a philanthropist whose character and work he held in genuine veneration—John Howard, the prisoners' friend. With his own hand he designed a monument to mark the resting-place of Christ's honoured servant, choosing for its sole inscription those words of Christ himself—"I was sick, and you visited me; I was in prison, and you came unto me." "Where the kings of the nations lie in glory, every one in his own house," the Czar Alexander Paulovitch has his stately sleeping-place; and well might it bear the same inscription. No human hand has placed it there; but we doubt not Divine lips will one day utter the commendation, "Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these, you have done it unto Me."