But they were across the
Beresina. There was no longer a Grand Army, however. There was no
army at all--only a starving, struggling trail of men stumbling
through the snow, without organization or discipline or hope.
It was a disaster on the same gigantic scale as the past victories--
a disaster worthy of such a conqueror. Even his enemies forgot to
rejoice. They caught their breath and waited.
And suddenly came the news that Napoleon was in Paris.
CHAPTER XVII. A FORLORN HOPE.
The fire i' the flint
Shows not, till it be struck.
"It is time to do something," said Papa Barlasch on the December
morning when the news reached Dantzig that Napoleon was no longer
with the army--that he had made over the parody of command of the
phantom army to Murat, King of Naples--that he had passed like an
evil spirit unknown through Poland, Prussia, Germany, travelling
twelve hundred miles night and day at breakneck speed, alone, racing
to Paris to save his throne.
"It is time to do something," said all Europe, when it was too late.
For Napoleon was himself again--alert, indomitable, raising a new
army, calling on France to rise to such heights of energy and
vitality as only France can compass; for the colder nations of the
North lack the imagination that enables men to pit themselves
against the gods at the bidding of some stupendous will, only second
to the will of God Himself.
Pages:
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169