An unknown unit in a regiment of infantry--young recruits who as yet had won no laurels--Henri de Talmont marched one day over a temporary wooden bridge which had been flung by French pontoniers across the Niemen. “Now, mes enfants,” their captain said, “you are standing upon Russian ground.” They cheered, embraced one another, and shouted until they were hoarse, “Vive l’Empereur! vive Napoleon! A bas les Russes!” Henri shouted as loudly as the rest; while, at least to the human eye, coming events cast no shadow before, nor was there any foreboding voice raised to whisper, as that vast and gallant host passed by,-- “The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre!” CHAPTER XII. ONE OF FIFTY MILLION. “The might that slumbers in a peasant’s arm.” A great battle, and a great victory--this was what Henri de Talmont, in common with the six hundred thousand fighting men who crossed the Niemen under Napoleon, fully expected to see. Young hearts kindled, young blood grew hot at the thought; while the veterans of Lodi, of Austerlitz, of Jena, saw their cherished laurels fade and pale before the lustre of those with which they hoped soon to adorn their victorious brows. And then how royally would the treasures of Moscow and St. Petersburg recompense all their toils! But there was no great battle. The Russians, under Barclay de Tolly, retreated without fighting, skilfully drawing the enemy after them into the immense and dreary plains of the interior. Then followed a succession of marches, as wearisome and far more monotonous than those by which the recruits had reached the headquarters of their army. The weather was hot and sultry--a curious first experience of the climate of Russia--and both men and horses suffered from the want of water. Other wants, too, were supplied but carelessly, or perhaps not at all. Many a conscript lay down supperless night after night beside the fire of his bivouac, to sleep away his hunger as best he could. It is said that some even died of starvation, while others found unwholesome nutriment in the unripe corn and the raw vegetables that grew along their route. Nor did the knowledge that the general of his division was feasting upon sterlet and champagne make the hard, insufficient fare of the conscript more palatable. “It is the soldier’s own fault if he wants anything in an enemy’s country,” was a maxim often repeated; but what can the soldier do when the people flee at his approach, carrying off or destroying everything they possess, and the country, at best but thinly inhabited, is left a desert around him?[23] Yet it must be owned that the French had themselves to thank for some of their privations, since those peasants who did not flee at their approach were plundered, beaten, ill-treated, perhaps even murdered.