Moreover the coachman makes so much noise with his shouts and his songs, is so forgetful of the cage he is dragging behind him, in which he shakes up his eagles or his crows, that sometimes he does not even notice, if the forecarriage breaks away as the result of a jerk. Then will he gallop along at full speed, leaving the body of the carriage in the road; and it is not till he gets to the next post that he notices his passengers are left behind. Then he retraces his step, with the imperturbable good nature which forms the foundation of his character; he comes up to them with his everlasting: “It is nothing,” fixes on the fore carriage and makes a fresh start with his: “Don’t be afraid.”

  Although, as may be imagined, we were classed in the category of “Eagles,” our vehicle, thanks to Ivan’s foresight, was so strong that no accident of this kind happened to us, and the same evening we reached Novgorod, the ancient and powerful town which has chosen for its device the Russian proverb: — ”No one can resist the Almighty or Great Novgorod.”

  Novgorod, formerly the cradle of the Russian Monarchy, whose sixty churches barely sufficed for its teeming population, is to-day with its dismantled ramparts, a kind of ruin of deserted streets, and rears itself on the road, like the ghost of a dead capital, between St. Petersburg and Moscow, the two modern capitals.

  We stopped at Novgorod for supper only and started again immediately. From time to time as we drove along we noticed great fires and squatting round them ten or twelve men with long beards and a collection of wagons drawn up on one side of the road. These men are the country carriers, who, since there are no villages and therefore no inns, camp out along the sides of the highways, sleep in their cloaks, and set out the next day as well pleased and happy as if they had spent the night in the best bed in the world. While they sleep their horses browse in the forests or graze in the plains; day-break the carriers whistle for them and the horses come and range themselves in their proper places.

  We woke up on the morrow in the midst of what is known as Russian Switzerland — a delightful country, amid everlasting steppes, or immense gloomy pine forests, a country interspersed with lakes, valleys and mountains. Valdai, situated about ninety leagues from St. Petersburg is the centre and capital of this northern Helvetia. Almost before our carriage pulled up we were surrounded by a crowd of biscuit sellers who reminded me of the hucksters who hawk novelties n the streets of Paris, only instead of the small number of privileged traders who exploit the approaches to the Tuileries, at Valdai’ we were assailed by a perfect army of young girls in short petticoats.

  After Valdai comes Torschok, famous for the manufacture of embroidered leather, which is fashioned into charming bedroom slippers and ladies’ shoes of a most whimsical and tasteful pattern. Then comes Tver, the headquarters of the Government, where the Volga is crossed by a bridge six hundred feet long. This vast river rises in Lake Selguier and flows into the Caspian Sea, after traversing the whole breadth of Russia, or in other words a distance of neatly seven hundred leagues.

  Twenty-five versts from the last mentioned town night overtook us, and when daylight appeared we were in sight of the flashing domes and gilt spires of Moscow.

  The prospect made a profound impression upon me. I had spread before my eyes the mighty tomb where the fortunes of France lay buried. I shuddered in spite of myself and it seemed to me that the ghost of Napoleon was about to appear like the shade of Adamastor and describe his defeat with tears of blood.

  On entering the city I looked about in all directions for traces of our visit in 1812 and noticed a few. From time to time vast ruins, depressing proofs of the savage devotion of Rostopchin, came into view, still blackened with the flames. I was eager to stop the carriage and, before entering the hotel, before going farther, to ask the way to the Kremlin, so anxious was I to visit the gloomy fortress, which the Russians had one morning surrounded by a belt of burning houses. I postponed my visit and allowed Ivan to conduct us; he drove us through part of the city and stopped in front of an inn kept by a Frenchman, near the Marshal’s Bridge. As chance would have it, we alighted close to the family mansion of the Vaninkovs.

  Louise was greatly fatigued with the journey, as she had carried her child in her arms the whole way; but though I insisted that she ought to go to bed immediately, she began to write to the Countess announcing her arrival at Moscow and asking permission to call upon her. We were looking for a messenger to bear the despatch to the Countess when we thought of our brave Sergeant Ivan. We were aware that the letter would be none the less welcomed if carried by him and he accepted the commission with great pleasure.

  Ten minutes later when I had just retired to my room, a carriage stopped at the door. It conveyed the Countess and her daughters who could not wait for Louise’s visit and themselves hastened to find her. Indeed they were well aware of the devotion of her noble heart, they knew with what intention she had started and the destination she was aiming at, and they were unwilling that she, whom they called their daughter and sister, should reside elsewhere than in their home during her short visit to Moscow.

  As my room adjoined Louise’s, I was to some extent a witness of the depth of feeling with which the poor mother threw herself into the aims of the woman who was on her way to see her son. As we had expected, the sight of Ivan had given the whole family great pleasure, for through him the Countess gathered the latest news of Vaninkov and heard that he reached Koslovo in as good a state of health as could be expected. Moreover it was a comfort to the Countess and her daughters to know the name of the village where he was residing.

  Louise drew aside the curtains of her bed and showed them the sleeping child and before she had told them that it was her intention to leave him with them the two sisters had snatched him up and offered him to their mother to be kissed.

  Then came my turn. They knew that I was accompanying Louise and that I was the Count’s fencing-master; so all these women wanted to see me. Louise had warned me of what was expected; I was waiting for them and fortunately had had time to make good the disorder of my toilet, due to two days and nights on the road.

  As may be imagined I was overwhelmed with questions. I had lived long enough in the Count’s society to be able to satisfy their demands and I was too fond of him to grow weary of speaking about him. The result was that the women were so delighted with me that they insisted upon my accompanying Louise to their house; but as I had no claim to such hospitality, I declined. Besides apart from scandal which might have arisen, I should have much more freedom at the hotel; and as I did not intend to stay at Moscow after Louise’s departure, I wished to take advantage of my short visit to examine the holy city.

  Louise gave an account of her interview with the Emperor, including everything that he had done for her, and the Countess wept at the narration, as much from joy as gratitude; for she hoped that the Emperor’s munificence would not stop half way and that he would commute the life exile into temporary banishment just as he had reduced the life sentence to one of exile.

  As I had disappointed her the Countess was anxious to offer her hospitality to Ivan; but I claimed him as I hoped to make use of him as a cicerone. Ivan had been in the campaign of 1812; he had been in the retreat from the Niemen to Vladimir and had pursued us from Vladimir to the Beresina. It will be seen then that he was much too valuable for me to let him go. Louise and her child got into the carriage with the Countess Vaninkov and her daughters and I remained in the hotel with Ivan, though I promised I would go and dine with the Countess the same evening.

  A quartet of an hour later, we left the hotel and I began my investigations.

  CHAPTER XXII

  IT was at half-past two in the afternoon of September 14th, 1812, that the French army got their first view of the holy city from the heights of Salvation Hill. At once a hundred and twenty thousand men began to clap their hands, exactly as had been the case fifteen years before at sight of the pyramids and shouted “Moscow! Moscow! “After a long voyage over a sea of steppes land was at last in sight. The aspect of the town, with its golden cupolas, caused all past sufferings to be forgotten, even the terrible and sanguinary victory of the Moskva which had cut up the army as much as a defeat. After stretching one hand to the Indian Ocean, France was about to touch the Polar seas with the other. Nothing could resist her, no desert of sand, no wilderness of snow. She was in truth Queen of the World and was going to be crowned in all the great capitals in turn.

  At the shouts of the whole army of soldiers who had now broken their ranks, and were jostling and congratulating each other, Napoleon himself hurried to the front. His first feeling was one of unspeakable joy which illuminated his forehead like an aureole. Like everyone else he shouted, while he raised himself in his stirrups, “Moscow! Moscow! “But at that moment a kind of shadow was seen to pass across his face and sinking back into his saddle he murmured; “It was high time.”

  The army halts; for Napoleon fixes his eyes on one the gates of the city and even attempts to peer covetously within the city while he waits for the approach of a deputation of long-bearded Boyards (Russian noblemen) and young girls bearing branches, who will come to him carrying the golden keys of the holy city on a plate of silver. But all is silent and deserted as if the city were asleep; no smoke rises above the chimneys; the only signs of life are the great flocks of rooks circling round the Kremlin and alighting on some cupola from which the gold disappears as it covered with a black cloth.

  Only on the further side of Moscow, he fancies he sees the exodus of a great army, pouring through the opposite gate facing us. It is the same unapproachable enemy, who slipped between our hands from the Niemen to the Moskva and is now melting away to the East.

  And now the French army, like one of its own eagles, has spread its two wings, Eugène and Ponietowski deploying to the right to out-flank the city, while Murat, whom Napoleon follows with his eyes with increasing uneasiness, reaches the outskirts of the suburbs, without the least sign of any deputation.

  Then his Marshals press round him, anxious about his uneasiness; Napoleon notices the gloomy faces and fixed looks; he guesses that his thoughts are shared by them.

  “Patience! patience!” said he mechanically, “these people are little better than savages, they probably don’t know the proper way to surrender.”

  By now Murat had entered the city; Napoleon tarries no longer, he sends Gourgaud after him, Gourgaud gallops off, rapidly covers the ground, and entering the city overtakes Murat, just when an officer from Milarodovitch is telling the King of Naples that the Russian general will set fire to the city if he is not given time to withdraw his rear-guard. Gourgaud returns at full speed to Napolean with this news.

  “Let them go,” said Napoleon, “I require the whole of Moscow, from the finest palace to the humblest cottage.”

  Gourgaud brings the answer back to Murat whom he finds surrounded by Cossacks, gazing with astonishment at the embroidery on his handsome polonaise and the plumes streaming from his hat. Murat informs them of the armistice and gives his watch to one of the officers and his jewels to another and when he has disposed of everything, he borrows the watches and rings of his aides-de-camp.

  Then under the protection of this truce the Russian army continues to evacuate Moscow.

  appears and every officer who comes back to him repeats the same story — “Moscow is deserted.” Yet he cannot believe it, he looks, he listens, nothing but the solitude of the desert, nothing but the silence of death. He is at the threshold of a city of tombs, another Pompeii or Necropolis.

  However he still hopes that like Brennus he will find the army in the Capitol or the Senators on their curule chairs. At length to prevent the exit from Moscow of all who had no right to leave, he has the city surrounded on the left wing by Prince Eugène and on the right by Prince Poniatowski; the two army corps extend their lines in a crescent and envelop Moscow; then he sends on in advance the Duke of Dantzig with the Young Guard, to penetrate to the heart of the city. Then having delayed his own entry as long as he can, as if he would like to doubt the testimony of his own eyes, he decides to pass the Dorogomitov gate, sends for the interpreter Leborgne who knows Moscow, ordering him to keep near him, and advancing into the midst of the great silence which is only broken by the sound of his own footsteps, he looks with questioning eyes at all the deserted buildings, all the empty palaces and all the vacant houses. Then, as if afraid to venture further into this modern Thebes, he halts, dismounts and takes up temporary quarters at a large inn abandoned like the rest of the city.

  Scarcely is he installed there before he sends abroad his orders as if his tent had been just pitched on some battlefield. He must fight against the solitude and silence which depresses him more than the din and bustle of an army. The Duke of Trévise is appointed the governor of the province; the Duke of Dantzig is to take possession of the Kremlin and have charge of the police in that quarter; the King of Naples w 11 pursue the enemy, not losing sight of them, gather in the stragglers and send them to Napoleon.

  Night approaches and as the darkness gathers Napoleon likewise becomes more and more depressed. A few musket shots are heard in the direction of the Kolomna gate; it is Murat, who after marching nine hundred leagues and taking part IN sixty pitched battles, has passed through Moscow. the city of the Czars, as if it had been a village, and has now come up with the Napoleon halts at the gateway, even now expecting some of the inhabitants to emerge from the enchanted city. No one Cossacks on the road to Vladimir. Some French prisoners are brought in who have come to ask for mercy from their own Emperor. Napoleon interviews them and questions them; and in a certain sense thanks them for having brought him some news. But at their very first words, he knits his brow, flies into a passion and contradicts them. In truth they tell of strange things. It appears that Moscow is doomed to be destroyed, it is to be set on fire by the Russians themselves, by her own sons; such a thing is impossible.

  At two o’clock in the morning it is reported that fire has broken out in the Palais-Marchand, that is to say in the handsomest quarter of the city. The threat cast at him by Rostopchin is being realised; but Napoleon is still in doubt; the outbreak is only due to the carelessness of some private soldier, and he gives order after order, and despatches courier after courier. Day breaks but the fire has not been extinguished, for strange to say, no fire engines can be found anywhere. Napoleon can no longer remain inactive, he himself hurries to the scene of the disaster. It must be Mortier’s fault, or the fault of the Young Guard; everything is owing to the carelessness of the soldiers. Then Mortier shows Napoleon a house barred and barricaded, burning by itself as if bewitched. Napoleon heaves a sigh and with bowed head slowly ascends the steps leading to the Kremlin.

  At last he has reached the object of his desires; in front of him is the old home of the Czars; on his right the church which watches over their remains; on his left the Senate House, and below him the steeple of Ivan Velikoï whose gilt cross already selected to replace the one on the Invalides, towers above all the domes in Moscow.

  He enters the Palace, but neither its architecture reminding him of Venice, nor its huge and magnificent rooms, nor the incomparable view from the windows of his apartment, embracing the Moskva and stretching beyond the sea of many coloured houses, beyond the gilded domes, beyond the silver cupolas, beyond the bronze roofs, nothing can distract him from his reverie. It is not Moscow which lies within his grasp; it is its shadow, its spectre, its ghost. Who has slain it?

  Presently he is informed that the fire has been extinguished. His enemy is conquered then; the good luck of Caesar is not going to desert him. In fact except for solitude and the fire everything is happening according to the expectation of Napoleon.

  Reports are constantly arriving. The arsenal at the Kremlin contains forty thousand English, Austrian and Russian muskets, a hundred field pieces, and lances, sabres, armour and trophies captured from the Turks and the Persians. At the German gate the discovery has been made of four hundred thousand weight of powder and more than a million weight of saltpetre, hidden away in isolated sheds. The nobility have abandoned over five hundred palaces; but the palaces are furnished and not barricaded, they will be occupied by the officers of high rank. A few houses which are believed to be empty will be thrown open; they belong to the inhabitants who form the middle class of society. Once their shyness is broken down others will be attracted. Finally we have behind us two hundred and fifty thousand men; we can await the winter; the good ship France which set sail for the conquest of the Northern seas, will be caught for six months in the polar ice; that is all. After the spring will come war, and with war, victory.

  Thus does Napoleon fall asleep, lulled by the ebbing and flowing of his fears and hopes.

  At midnight the cry of “Fire “is once more heard. The wind is in the north and the fire is breaking out in the north. Thus does chance assist the conflagration; driven by the breeze it creeps in the direction of the Kremlin like a glowing river; the sparks are already playing about the roof of the palace and falling into the midst of a park of artillery drawn up underneath the walls. Then the wind backs to the west, the flames change their direction; they still continue to spread, but the burning area is further off.

  Suddenly a second conflagration arises in the west; and approaches like the former, urged on by the wind. It appears that its objective is the Kremlin, and this clever ally of the Russians is marching straight at Napoleon. There is no longer any doubt, it is a novel plan of destruction adopted by the enemy and the truth, which Napoleon has refused to believe so long begins to gnaw at his heart.

  Presently in all directions, fresh columns of smoke arise, bursting suddenly into flames like glaring lances; as the wind is fitful and constantly shifting from north to west, the fire creeps like a crawling serpent; in all directions fiery trails are moving on, they envelop the Kremlin and rivers of lava appear to flow from them. Every moment fresh torrents break away from these rivers, themselves to give rise to others; it seems as if the earth is opening and vomiting forth fire; it is no longer a conflagration but a sea and the immense flood ever rising, advances with a roar to beat against the walls of Kremlin.

 

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