Kabanata Kabanata 171 · 第171章

At two in the morning of the fourteenth of June, the Emperor, having

sent for Balashëv and read him his letter to Napoleon, ordered him to

take it and hand it personally to the French Emperor. When dispatching

Balashëv, 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 Balashëv to

repeat them personally to Napoleon.

Having set off in the small hours of the fourteenth, accompanied by a

bugler and two Cossacks, Balashëv reached the French outposts at the

village of Rykónty, 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 Balashëv to halt. Balashëv 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 Balashëv, 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? Balashëv 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, Balashëv

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.

Balashëv 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 Balashëv’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 Rykónty, 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 Balashëv 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 Balashëv at a gallop, his plumes flowing and his gems and

gold lace glittering in the bright June sunshine.

Balashëv was only two horses’ length from the equestrian with the

bracelets, plumes, 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 Balashëv’s mission, whose name he could not pronounce.

“De Bal-machève!” 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 Balashëv’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 Balashëv, “my master, the Emperor, does not

desire war and as Your Majesty sees...” said Balashëv, 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-machève.” But royauté 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 Balashëv’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.”

Balashëv 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.

Balashëv 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.

Balashëv 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.