dispatch, which he had torn open a moment or two since. He shook it in the air, crushed it in his hand, laughed, and those who heard him laugh shuddered. "What does the Duke of Vicenza say, Sire?" chimed in another marshal. "It is you, Berthier," said the Emperor. "You, at least, do not advise surrender?" "Not yet, Sire." "But when?" asked Napoleon quickly. Without waiting for an answer to his question, he continued: "The allies now graciously offer us—think of it, gentlemen—the limits of 1791." "Impossible!" cried a big red-headed marshal. "They demand it, Prince of the Moskowa," answered the Emperor, addressing Marshal Ney. "But it's incredible, Sire." "What!" burst out Napoleon passionately. "Shall we leave France less than we found her, after all these victories, after all these conquests, after all these submissions of kings and nations? Shall we go back to the limits of the old monarchy? Never!" "But, Sire——" began Marshal Maret. "No more," said the Emperor, turning upon the Duc de Bassano. "Rather death than that. While we have arms we can at least die." He flashed an imperious look upon the assembly, but no one seemed to respond to his appeal. The Emperor's glance slowly roved about the room. The young captain met his look. Instantly and instinctively his hand went up in salute, his lips framed the familiar phrase: "Vive l'Empereur! Yes, Sire, we can still die for you," he added in a low respectful voice, but with tremendous emphasis nevertheless. He was a mere youth, apparently. Napoleon looked at him approvingly, although some of the marshals, with clouded brows and indignant words of protest at such an outburst from so young a man, would have reproved him had not their great leader checked them with a gesture. "Your name, sir," he said shortly to the young officer who had been guilty of such an amazing breach of military decorum. "Marteau, Sire. Jean Marteau, at the Emperor's service," answered the young soldier nervously, realizing what impropriety he had
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