Le coeur humain est
un abime qui trompe tous les calculs.
It is to be presumed that Colonel de Casimir met friends
at the reception given by Governor Rapp in the great
rooms of the Rathhaus. For there were many Poles
present, and not a few officers of other nationalities.
The army indeed that set forth to conquer Russia was
not a French-speaking army. Less than half
of the regiments were of that nationality, while Italians,
Bavarians, Saxons, Wurtembergers, Westphalians, Prussians,
Swiss, and Portuguese went gaily forward on the great
venture. There were soldiers from the numerous
petty states of the German Confederation which acknowledged
Napoleon as their protector, for the good reason that
they could not protect themselves against him.
Finally, there were those Poles who had fought in
Spain for Napoleon, hoping that in return he would
some day set the ancient kingdom upon its feet among
the nations. Already the whisperers pointed to
Davoust as the future king of the new Poland.
Many present at the farewell reception of the Governor
carried a sword, though they were the merest civilians,
plotting, counter-plotting, and whispering a hundred
rumours. Perhaps Rapp himself, speaking bluff
French with a German accent, was as honest as any man
in the room, though he lacked the polish of the Parisian
and had not the subtlety of the Pole. Rapp was
not a shining light in these brilliant circles.
He was a Governor not for peace, but for war.
His day was yet to come.
Such men as de Casimir shrugged their supple shoulders
at his simple talk. They spoke of him half-contemptuously
as of one who had had a thousand chances and had never
taken them. He was not even rich, and he had
handled great sums of money. He was only a General,
and he had slept in the Emperor’s tent—had
had access to him in every humour. He might
do the same again in the coming campaign. He
was worth cultivating. De Casimir and his like
were full of smiles which in no wise deceived the
shrewd Alsatian.
Mathilde Sebastian was among the ladies to whom these
brilliant warriors paid their uncouth compliments.
Perhaps de Casimir was aware that her measuring eyes
followed him wherever he went. He knew, at all
events, that he could hold his own amid these adventurers,
many of whom had risen from the ranks; while others,
from remote northern States, had birth but no manners
at all. He was easy and gay, carrying lightly
that subtle air of distinction which is vouchsafed
to many Poles.
“Here to-day, Mademoiselle, and gone to-morrow,”
he said. “All these eager soldiers.
And who can tell which of us may return?”
If he had expected Mathilde to flinch at this reminder
of his calling, he was disappointed. Her eyes
were hard and bright. She had had so few chances
of moving amidst this splendour, of seeing close at
hand the greatness which Napoleon shed around him as
the sun its rays. She was carried away by the
spirit of the age. Anything was better, she felt,
than obscurity.
