paper down. "The Bourbons have entered
Brussels,"--he threw another letter upon the table--"Belgium, you see,
is lost. Bernadotte has taken Denmark. Macdonald is falling back on
Epernay, his weak force growing weaker every hour. Yorck, who failed
us once before, is hard on his heels with twice, thrice, the number of
his men. Sacken is trying to head him off. The King of Naples seeks
to save the throne on which I established him by withdrawing from me
now--the poor fool! The way to Paris along the Marne is open, and
Bluecher is marching on the capital with eighty thousand Russians,
Prussians and Bavarians. Schwarzenburg with many more is close at
hand."

Something like a hollow groan broke from the breasts of the auditors as
the fateful dispatches fell one by one from the Emperor's hand. The
secretaries stopped writing and stared. The young officer by the door
clenched his hands.

"Sire----," said one of the officers, the rich trappings of whose dress
indicated that he was a Marshal of France. He began boldly but ended
timidly. "Before it is too late----"

Napoleon swung around and fixed his piercing eyes upon him, as his
voice died away. The Emperor could easily finish the uncompleted
sentence.

"What, you, Mortier!" he exclaimed.

"I, too, Sire," said another marshal more boldly, apparently encouraged
by the fact that his brother officer had broken the ice.

"And you, Marmont," cried the Emperor, transfixing him in turn with a
reproachful glance.

Both marshals stepped back abashed.

"Besides," said the Emperor gloomily, "it is already too late. I have
reserved the best for the last," he said with grim irony. "The courier
who has just departed is from Caulaincourt." He lifted the last
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 passio