VIVE L’EMPEREUR

The weatherworn Chateau d’Aumenier stands in the midst of a noble park of trees forming part of an extensive domain not far to the northwest of the little town of Sezanne, in the once famous county of Champagne, in France.  The principal room of the castle is a great hall in the oldest part of the venerable pile which dates back for eight hundred years, or to the tenth century and the times of the famous Count Eudes himself, for whom it was held by one of his greatest vassals.

The vast apartment is filled with rare and interesting mementos of its distinguished owners, including spoils of war and trophies of the chase, acquired in one way or another in the long course of their history, and bespeaking the courage, the power, the ruthlessness, and, sometimes, the unscrupulousness of the hard-hearted, heavy-handed line.  Every country in Europe and every age, apparently, has been levied upon to adorn this great hall, with its long mullioned windows, its enormous fireplace, its huge carved stone mantel, its dark oak paneled walls and beamed ceiling.  But, the most interesting, the most precious of all the wonderful things therein has a place of honor to itself at the end farthest from the main entrance.

Fixed against this wall is a broken staff, or pole, surmounted by a small metallic figure.  The staff is fastened to the wall by clamps of tempered steel which are further secured by delicate locks of skillful and intricate workmanship.  The pole is topped by the gilded effigy of an eagle.

In dimensions the eagle is eight inches high, from head to feet, and nine and a half inches wide, from wing tip to wing tip.  Heraldically, “Un Aigle Eploye” it would be called.  That is, an eagle in the act of taking flight-in the vernacular, a “spread eagle.”  The eagle looks to the left, with its wings half expanded.  In its talons it grasps a thunderbolt, as in the old Roman standard.  Those who have ever wandered into the Monastery of the Certosa, at Milan, have seen just such an eagle on one of the tombs of the great Visconti family.  For, in truth, this emblem has been modeled after that one.

Below the thunderbolt is a tablet of brass, three inches square, on which is a raised number.  In this instance, the number is five.  The copper of which the eagle is molded was originally gilded, but in its present battered condition much of the gilt has been worn off, or shot off, and the original material is plainly discernible.  If it could be lifted its weight would be found to be about three and a half pounds.

Around the neck of the eagle hangs a wreath of pure gold.  There is an inscription on the back of it, which says that the wreath was presented to the regiment by the loyal city of Paris after the wonderful Ulm campaign.

One of the claws of the eagle has been shot away.  The gold laurel wreath has also been struck by a bullet, and some of its leaves are gone.  The tip of one wing is missing.  The head of the eagle, originally proudly and defiantly erect, has been bent backward so that, instead of a level glance, it looks upward, and there is a deep dent in it, as from a blow.  And right in the breast gapes a great ragged shot-hole, which pierces the heart of the proud emblem.  The eagle has seen service.  It has been in action.  It bears its honorable wounds.  No attempt has been made to repair it.

The staff on which the eagle stands has been broken at about half its length, presumably by a bullet.  The shattered, splintered end indicates that the staff is made of oak.  It had been painted blue originally.  The freshness of the paint has been marred.  On one side, a huge slice has been cut out of it as if by a mighty sword stroke.  The tough wood is gashed and scarred in various places, and there is a long, dark blur just above the broken part, which looks as if it might be a blood stain.

Below the eagle, and attached to the remainder of the staff for about three-fourths of its length, is what remains of a battle flag.  The material of it was originally rich and heavy crimson silk, bordered with gold fringe.  It is faded, tattered, shot-torn, bullet-ridden, wind-whipped; parts of it have disappeared.  It has been carefully mounted, and is stretched out so as to present its face to the beholder.  In dull, defaced letters of gold may be read inscriptions-the imagination piecing out the missing parts.  Here is a line that runs as follows: 

  Napoleon, Empereur des Francais, au 5e Infanterie
    de la Ligne.

And underneath, in smaller and brighter letters, as if a later addition: 

  Grenadiers du Garde Impériale.

There has been some sort of device in the middle, but most of it has disappeared.  From what remains, one guesses that it was a facsimile of the eagle on the staff-head.  There are little tarnished spots of gold here and there.  A close observation discloses that they are golden bees.  In the corners near the staff, the only ones that are left are golden wreaths in the center of which may be seen the letter “N”.

On the other side of the flag, hidden from the beholder, are a series of names.  They have been transcribed upon a silver plate, which is affixed to the wall below the broken staff.  They read as follows: 

“Marengo; Ulm; Austerlitz; Jena; Berlin; Eylau; Friedland; Madrid; Eckmuhl; Wagram; Vienna; Smolensk; Moskowa; Bautzen; Leipsic; Montmirail; Arcis.”

Beneath this list is a heavy dash and below all in larger letters, which unlike the rest have been filled with black enamel, is the last word,

  “Waterloo.”

The eagle, the staff, and the flag are enclosed and protected from careless handling by a heavy glass case, the panes set in steel and silver, and the doors carefully locked to prevent its being stolen away.  But its security is not entrusted to these inanimate materials alone.  Every hour of the day and night there keeps watch over it an old soldier.  He is armed and equipped as if for battle, in the uniform of the old Fifth Regiment of the Line, somehow temporarily incorporated in the Imperial Guard as a supplementary regiment of the Grenadiers thereof.  The black gaiters, the white trousers, the blue and scarlet coat, with its crossed belts and brilliant decorations, the lofty bearskin head-dress, are all strangely in keeping with the relic and its surroundings.

Sometimes the soldier-and there are five of them whose sole and only business it is to watch over the flag-paces steadily up and down in front of it, like a sentry on his post.  Sometimes he stands before it at parade rest.  As to each individual’s movements, he suits his fancy.  These are old soldiers, indeed, highly privileged, veterans of twenty campaigns, fifty pitched battles, and smaller affairs without number.  Their weatherbeaten faces are lined and wrinkled, their mustaches are as white as snow.

The guard is always relieved at the appointed intervals with military formality and precision.  One soldier, older, taller than the rest, is in command of the other four.  From his buttonhole dangles from a white ribbon a little cross of white enamel.  Though he shows no insignia of rank higher than that of a Sergeant of the Guard, he has won the proud distinction of the Legion of Honor.

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.