Betrayal in the Snow of Moscow

Napoleon I was returning from Moscow after the Russians had set it ablaze. Half of his great army had drowned in the icy waters of the Berezina River. The torrent was fierce, the wind was blowing fiercely from the north, the horizon was dark and clouded with black clouds, and the cold was bitter. The soldiers who had struck terror into the hearts of united Europe were resisting the deadly lure of sleep with all their strength, fighting off the deadly pangs of hunger with pride. Some of the infantrymen were wrestling with vultures over the carcasses of horses, while others were overcome by sleep and lay unconscious. Despite all this, they resorted to fleeing from time to time for fear of Russian cannons and Cossack pursuit. Among those unfortunate souls were three horsemen who took refuge in a small forest, cleared the snow from the branches of the brambles, burned it, and sat around it to warm themselves.

One of them was thirty-five years old and wore clothes indicating that he held the rank of admiral in the army. He was over six feet tall, with blue eyes, and his noble face bore the marks of courage and patience. He lay between his companions, his arm broken and covered with wounds.

The second was a captain, a young man with a dark complexion and a restless, unsettled gaze. He sat next to his commander, helping him to eat, his face clouded with worry.

The third was a soldier of the guard, whose heart was broken by his master's wounds. He sat near him, tears of compassion streaming from his eyes. Whenever he heard the roar of cannons or felt the sound of hooves, he would leap up like a lion and run in search of the pursuers, then return to his master and wash his deep wounds with his tears.

Darkness had fallen, and the thick twilight mist blended the earth with the sky. The admiral looked at the commander of the hundred and said to him, "What do you think, Philippon, should we stay here tonight?"

The soldier left no room for the commander to answer and replied enthusiastically, "My lord, the cold is bitter, and it is not wise to spend the night in this forest, for the Cossacks are close to us."

The admiral looked at them, then asked Philipon again for his opinion, and he replied: "Bastian is right in thinking that we must leave, for if we hide in this dangerous place, we will not survive. When the fire dies down, we will freeze to death. Moreover, the sound of Russian cannons warns us that they are close to us, and our only salvation is to flee."

The admiral sighed and said: "What misery and shame! We are fleeing from a group of Cossacks, and what will people say about us, who know of our courage? But alas, who can overcome nature, and who can endure this terrible cold? How can I leave when my strength has been sapped by the excessive loss of blood? By God, let me die by this fire, for my legs are too weak to carry me.

He said this and cried out in pain, then fell down in front of the fire, on the verge of death.

His companions consulted each other, then the commander whispered in the soldier's ear, "If we let him sleep, we will not be able to wake him up again."

The soldier leaned over and said, "It's okay to let him sleep for an hour, for I will carry him asleep on my shoulders."

The commander listened for a moment, then said, "The Russians are three leagues away from us, so let him sleep if he wishes, and we will keep watch over him."

The admiral heard this and reached out his hand to Philipon, saying, "My dear friend, I am very grateful for your kindness and compassion toward me, and I congratulate you on your steadfastness in the face of this terrible cold. If you were not braver and more patient than I, you would be as weak and discouraged as I am now."

The commander replied, "I suffer from the cold just as you do, but you are covered in wounds, while I have not shed a drop of blood. That is why you accuse yourself of weakness and lack of determination."

The admiral thanked him and said, "Listen to me, for I feel that my time is near, and I would like to tell you something that I hope will not be too difficult for you to hear. I am thirty-five years old, and I joined the military at the age of sixteen. I rose to the rank of admiral at the age of thirty. I mean that I had some courage and patience, with which I climbed the ladder of excellence and almost reached the height of my ambitions. These are two qualities that, when bestowed upon a person, lift him from the depths of idleness to the highest levels of advancement. It is as if they have now been washed away with the blood flowing from my wounds, replaced by this unbearable bitter cold. As long as I have fought in battles, been targeted by arrows, and risked my life for the love of my country, I remember a battle in which I was buried for a whole day under the bodies of the dead. and a day when I broke through the enemy lines at the siege of Saragossa in Spain with two bullets in my chest, and another in Warcram, where I remained on my horse until the end of the battle, my thigh wounded by a spear. Now I am like a dead man without a soul, a coward fleeing from the Cossacks, all because of the cold I suffer from, not because of the blood I have lost.

The commander said to him in a comforting tone: "Be patient, my friend, for we will leave this frozen land for a land where the sun shines, and the lion comes out of its den."

The admiral sighed and said, "How I long for my homeland! Alas, I will die before I see my country!" Then he smiled a resigned smile and said, fighting off the deadly drowsiness, "No, I must not sleep, for I must think of my wife and child first. Listen to me, You two, my friends, will live after me, and the memory of my love will remain engraved in your hearts. So lend me your ears, for this is the last thing I will say to you. Then he reached out his hand to Philipon and said: My friend, I left behind in France, my beloved homeland, a woman in the prime of her youth and a small child, and soon that woman will be a widow and that child an orphan... Do not interrupt me, my friend, for I wish for myself what you wish for me, to live and see my wife and child, but my heart tells me that death is near, and that widow and orphan need a faithful guardian.

Bastian knelt on his knees and raised his hands to the sky, saying, "I will give my life and my blood, drop by drop, in the service of your wife and son if misfortune befalls you."

The admiral, whose name was Arman de Kerkaz, thanked him, then turned his gaze to the commander and said, "And you...you, my kind brother and loyal friend..."

As if these words had struck the commander like an electric shock, he was shaken by them like a feather in the wind, but this passed more quickly than one might imagine, and he soon returned to his previous state of gloom. He approached Arman and listened to him, and Arman said: You are the best person I have ever known. You will be the support of that widow and the father of that little child.

The commander's face reddened and his eyes flashed, but Arman did not notice this and continued speaking, saying: I am not unaware of your previous love for my wife since she was called by her family name, and you remember the day she captured our hearts with her manners, and we competed for her love. How we left her the choice of choosing one of us as her husband. On that day, I was more fortunate than you, and she chose me as her companion with your consent. This did not sever the bonds of affection between us; rather, it strengthened our harmony and cemented our brotherhood, prompting me to thank you at the time as a lover who knew the secret of loyalty, and to pray for you, since you were the reason for the happiness he had attained.

Now that kind husband will be cast into eternal darkness, leaving that woman a widow with no one but you to support her and no hope but you. You will be that widow's husband after me, and you will be a father to that orphan.

Yes, you will marry her after me. This is my last will and testament, which I wrote at the outbreak of this war, leaving you half of my fortune. Now you will share it with my wife and son, for I trust you and your sincerity, and I have no doubt that you will carry out your last loving wish. He said this and reached with his good hand into his breast pocket, took out a large envelope, and gave it to Philip.

The commander's face turned pale, and he took the envelope with a trembling hand, saying, "Rest assured, my friend, I will comply with your request if harm befalls you, but you will recover from your wounds and live for your wife, who has left a deep impression of respect on my heart."

Arman smiled the smile of one who is confident that his time is near, and did not utter a word, but groaned and closed his eyes, overcome by drowsiness. Philip said to Sebastian, "Let us let him sleep for a few hours and take turns watching over him." Then they laid him down near the fire and covered him with their clothes, and within a minute his snoring could be heard.

Sebastian sat near his head and stoked the fire whenever it died down or was about to die down, taking care not to let the sparks fall on him, almost melting with tenderness for his master.

As for Philipon, he was lost in his thoughts, staring at the ground and poking it with his long sword. He interrupted his thoughts from time to time to glance at Arman with contempt and vengeance, and at Sebastian with caution and suspicion. In the context of this story, we must allude to the past of this man, whom Arman loved like a brother and trusted blindly. If the image of malice were to be represented, it would be none other than his likeness. We say: He was morally corrupt, very soft and cunning, and originally from the rabble of the Italians. He volunteered for the French army, and his companions were not only extremely poor, but also millionaires.

It did not take him long to rise to the rank of commander due to his excessive cunning and the army's need for commanders who were fearless and daring, for he concealed his cowardice and deceit with a veil of lamentation.

He had been bound to Arman for fifteen years by a strong bond of friendship, so much so that they became inseparable. Three years before the battle we are discussing, they met Lady Helena Diran, the daughter of one of the senior commanders, who was exceptionally beautiful, and both fell in love with her. She chose Arman as her husband, as we mentioned earlier, which aroused Philipon's jealousy. He harbored evil intentions toward his companion, concealing his hatred and waiting for an opportunity for revenge. He even shot at him in many places, but failed to harm him. and he did not succeed in killing him. Throughout all this, he continued to show him kindness, and his hatred increased as Arman's love for him grew, as is the case with those who are characterized by meanness and baseness.

Now he had found what he was looking for, and his dream of revenge had come true. He looked at Bastian, who was watching over his master with a mother's tenderness, and said to himself: "This soldier is a burden to me and thwarts my efforts." With that, he stood up and went to his horse.

Bastian asked him, "What are you doing?"

"I want to test my dagger, for I fear it may have become damp from the cold."

He then took a pistol and tested it in front of the soldier, who watched him calmly and contentedly. He then took a second pistol and tested it as he had tested the first. After he was satisfied with both, he aimed one of them at the soldier and said, "Do you know, Bastian, that I am a very skilled marksman?"

"There is no doubt about that, Captain."

"Do you know that I once shot an enemy in the heart from a distance of thirty paces?"

"That's possible."

"And I have done even greater things than that. I used to bet that I could hit one of my opponent's eyes, and I always won, but I always prefer to shoot for the heart, because that kills the opponent instantly.

Bastian recoiled in fear when he saw him aiming the pistol at him and said in a tone of terror, "What are you doing?"

He replied coldly, "I am aiming for the heart, for I do not want you to suffer.

He immediately fired the gun, and the faithful servant cried out in pain and fell to the ground covered in blood.

The forest echoed with the sound of gunpowder, and Arman woke up despite his intense drowsiness. He looked around with terror and anxiety and saw the poor soldier lying on the ground, looking at him with a sad farewell gaze, his hand on his stabbed heart.

Then he looked at Philipon and saw the foam on his lips and the look of savage vengeance in his eyes. He forgot his painful wounds and sat up quickly, trying to stand, but Philipon did not give him time. He pounced on him like a predatory tiger, threw him to the ground, placed one knee on his wounded chest, and pressed down hard, saying: "Damn you, you foolish fool! You trusted me when you should have been wary of me as you would be of your worst enemy. You, who stole from me the woman who was my hope, the one I loved and will never love anyone else in this world. Be patient, for I will marry your wife and enjoy your wealth as you have instructed. Now you have only one minute left to live, for your life is of no use to me. Die, so that I may live after you.

Arman struggled to escape, driven by his desire to preserve his life, but Philipon shot him, and Arman fell, saying, "You bastard!" Those were his last words.

As for Philip, he left Arman with his marrow spilled on his sinful hand, and Bastian, drenched in his blood, with no one but God aware of his sin.

Four years passed since that terrible incident and heinous crime, during which time the brutal commander became an admiral and the husband of the widow of the nobleman Arman de Kerkaz.

Philip was spending the summer with his wife and her son at his palace in Carlow, one of the most beautiful villages in Britain. This palace had previously belonged to the Arman de Carcass family, and part of it had been inherited by his widow and part by that traitor, who lived on the border of Viter on the seashore, surrounded on most sides by dense forests.