|
At two in the morning of the fourteenth of June, the Emperor,
having sent for Balashev and read him his letter to Napoleon,
ordered him to take it and hand it personally to the French Emperor.
When dispatching Balashev, the Emperor repeated to him the words
that he would not make peace so long as a single armed enemy remained
on Russian soil and told him to transmit those words to Napoleon.
Alexander did not insert them in his letter to Napoleon, because
with his characteristic tact he felt it would be injudicious to
use them at a moment when a last attempt at reconciliation was
being made, but he definitely instructed Balashev to repeat them
personally to Napoleon.
Having set off in the small hours of the fourteenth, accompanied
by a bugler and two Cossacks, Balashev reached the French outposts
at the village of Rykonty, on the Russian side of the Niemen,
by dawn. There he was stopped by French cavalry sentinels.
A French noncommissioned officer of hussars, in crimson uniform
and a shaggy cap, shouted to the approaching Balashev to halt.
Balashev did not do so at once, but continued to advance along
the road at a walking pace.
The noncommissioned officer frowned and, muttering words of
abuse, advanced his horse's chest against Balashev, put his hand
to his saber, and shouted rudely at the Russian general, asking:
was he deaf that he did not do as he was told? Balashev mentioned
who he was. The noncommissioned officer began talking with his
comrades about regimental matters without looking at the Russian
general.
After living at the seat of the highest authority and power,
after conversing with the Emperor less than three hours before,
and in general being accustomed to the respect due to his rank
in the service, Balashev found it very strange here on Russian
soil to encounter this hostile, and still more this disrespectful,
application of brute force to himself.
The sun was only just appearing from behind the clouds, the
air was fresh and dewy. A herd of cattle was being driven along
the road from the village, and over the fields the larks rose
trilling, one after another, like bubbles rising in water.
Balashev looked around him, awaiting the arrival of an officer
from the village. The Russian Cossacks and bugler and the French
hussars looked silently at one another from time to time.
A French colonel of hussars, who had evidently just left his
bed, came riding from the village on a handsome sleek gray horse,
accompanied by two hussars. The officer, the soldiers, and their
horses all looked smart and well kept.
It was that first period of a campaign when troops are still
in full trim, almost like that of peacetime maneuvers, but with
a shade of martial swagger in their clothes, and a touch of the
gaiety and spirit of enterprise which always accompany the opening
of a campaign.
The French colonel with difficulty repressed a yawn, but was
polite and evidently understood Balashev's importance. He led
him past his soldiers and behind the outposts and told him that
his wish to be presented to the Emperor would most likely be satisfied
immediately, as the Emperor's quarters were, he believed, not
far off.
They rode through the village of Rykonty, past tethered French
hussar horses, past sentinels and men who saluted their colonel
and stared with curiosity at a Russian uniform, and came out at
the other end of the village. The colonel said that the commander
of the division was a mile and a quarter away and would receive
Balashev and conduct him to his destination.
The sun had by now risen and shone gaily on the bright verdure.
They had hardly ridden up a hill, past a tavern, before they
saw a group of horsemen coming toward them. In front of the group,
on a black horse with trappings that glittered in the sun, rode
a tall man with plumes in his hat and black hair curling down
to his shoulders. He wore a red mantle, and stretched his long
legs forward in French fashion. This man rode toward Balashev
at a gallop, his plumes flowing and his gems and gold lace glittering
in the bright June sunshine.
Balashev was only two horses' length from the equestrian with
the bracelets, plunies, necklaces, and gold embroidery, who was
galloping toward him with a theatrically solemn countenance, when
Julner, the French colonel, whispered respectfully: "The
King of Naples!" It was, in fact, Murat, now called "King
of Naples." Though it was quite incomprehensible why he should
be King of Naples, he was called so, and was himself convinced
that he was so, and therefore assumed a more solemn and important
air than formerly. He was so sure that he really was the King
of Naples that when, on the eve of his departure from that city,
while walking through the streets with his wife, some Italians
called out to him: "Viva il re!"* he turned to his wife
with a pensive smile and said: "Poor fellows, they don't
know that I am leaving them tomorrow!"
*"Long live the king."
But though he firmly believed himself to be King of Naples
and pitied the grief felt by the subjects he was abandoning, latterly,
after he had been ordered to return to military service- and especially
since his last interview with Napoleon in Danzig, when his august
brother-in-law had told him: "I made you King that you should
reign in my way, but not in yours!"- he had cheerfully taken
up his familiar business, and- like a well-fed but not overfat
horse that feels himself in harness and grows skittish between
the shafts- he dressed up in clothes as variegated and expensive
as possible, and gaily and contentedly galloped along the roads
of Poland, without himself knowing why or whither.
On seeing the Russian general he threw back his head, with
its long hair curling to his shoulders, in a majestically royal
manner, and looked inquiringly at the French colonel. The colonel
respectfully informed His Majesty of Balashev's mission, whose
name he could not pronounce.
"De Bal-macheve!" said the King (overcoming by his
assurance the difficulty that had presented itself to the colonel).
"Charmed to make your acquaintance, General!" he added,
with a gesture of kingly condescension.
As soon as the King began to speak loud and fast his royal
dignity instantly forsook him, and without noticing it he passed
into his natural tone of good-natured familiarity. He laid his
hand on the withers of Balashev's horse and said:
"Well, General, it all looks like war," as if regretting
a circumstance of which he was unable to judge.
"Your Majesty," replied Balashev, "my master,
the Emperor, does not desire war and as Your Majesty sees..."
said Balashev, using the words Your Majesty at every opportunity,
with the affectation unavoidable in frequently addressing one
to whom the title was still a novelty.
Murat's face beamed with stupid satisfaction as he listened
to "Monsieur de Bal-macheve." But royaute oblige!* and
he felt it incumbent on him, as a king and an ally, to confer
on state affairs with Alexander's envoy. He dismounted, took Balashev's
arm, and moving a few steps away from his suite, which waited
respectfully, began to pace up and down with him, trying to speak
significantly. He referred to the fact that the Emperor Napoleon
had resented the demand that he should withdraw his troops from
Prussia, especially when that demand became generally known and
the dignity of France was thereby offended.
*"Royalty has its obligations."
Balashev replied that there was nothing offensive in the demand,
because..." but Murat interrupted him.
"Then you don't consider the Emperor Alexander the aggressor?"
he asked unexpectedly, with a kindly and foolish smile.
Balashev told him why he considered Napoleon to be the originator
of the war.
"Oh, my dear general!" Murat again interrupted him,
"with all my heart I wish the Emperors may arrange the affair
between them, and that the war begun by no wish of mine may finish
as quickly as possible!" said he, in the tone of a servant
who wants to remain good friends with another despite a quarrel
between their masters.
And he went on to inquiries about the Grand Duke and the state
of his health, and to reminiscences of the gay and amusing times
he had spent with him in Naples. Then suddenly, as if remembering
his royal dignity, Murat solemnly drew himself up, assumed the
pose in which he had stood at his coronation. and, waving his
right arm, said:
"I won't detain you longer, General. I wish success to
your mission," and with his embroidered red mantle, his flowing
feathers, and his glittering ornaments, he rejoined his suite
who were respectfully awaiting him.
Balashev rode on, supposing from Murat's words that he would
very soon be brought before Napoleon himself. But instead of that,
at the next village the sentinels of Davout's infantry corps detained
him as the pickets of the vanguard had done, and an adjutant of
the corps commander, who was fetched, conducted him into the village
to Marshal Davout.
|
