But these noble words, did they die upon the ears of those who heard them, leaving only an echo, faint though musical, to remind them of the existence of such things as mercy and humanity? or did they really prove strong enough to restrain the excited passions of a hundred thousand fighting men? Strange to tell, the voice of Alexander was obeyed. It was not easy to secure such obedience; it would not have been even possible, had not he whose lips uttered the command been passionately loved, as well as feared and honoured. But a touching proof how well it was secured was given years afterwards. When, through the length and breadth of Europe, the tidings flashed from lip to lip, “The Emperor of Russia is dead,” the peasants of the French provinces through which he marched at the head of a victorious hostile army crowded unbidden to their churches to offer their humble prayers, useless indeed but sincere, for the repose of his soul. Two months of hard fighting brought the Allies from the banks of the Rhine to those of the Marne, which they crossed on the 28th of March, and found themselves in the rich and fertile plain that surrounds Paris. The Chevaliers of the Imperial Guard had borne their full share in the glories and dangers of the war; for their place was near the person of a sovereign of whom it was said with truth that “the only life he ever exposed without reflection was his own.” Their ranks were sorely thinned: one gallant youth had fallen by a shot from the same battery as that which killed Moreau, two at Toplitz, others at Leipzig and elsewhere. But their arms were as bright, their equipages as splendid, as when they left the banks of the Neva; and their massy silver cuirasses reflected the sunshine of France from surfaces as stainless as those which flashed upon the parade-ground of St. Petersburg. Ivan Pojarsky was an ensign now--he had won his colours on the banks of the Elbe--and he wore besides the Order of St. George along with the Moscow medal on the breast of his crimson tunic. He had escaped without a wound; but his friend Tolstoi was looking very pale, and had his left hand in a sling. As the Chevaliers rode together towards Paris on the evening of the 29th of March, their party was joined by some noble young Prussian volunteers, their personal friends. One of these, named Schubart, was vaunting to the Russians the courage and ability of Blucher, and telling them the story of some of his exploits.