War and Peace
was sprinkling Eau de Cologne on the Emperor’s pampered body with an
expression which seemed to say that he alone knew where and how much Eau
de Cologne should be sprinkled. Napoleon’s short hair was wet and
matted on the forehead, but his face, though puffy and yellow, expressed
physical satisfaction. “Go on, harder, go on!” he muttered to the valet
who was rubbing him, slightly twitching and grunting. An aide-de-camp,
who had entered the bedroom to report to the Emperor the number of
prisoners taken in yesterday’s action, was standing by the door after
delivering his message, awaiting permission to withdraw. Napoleon,
frowning, looked at him from under his brows.
“No prisoners!” said he, repeating the aide-de-camp’s words. “They
are forcing us to exterminate them. So much the worse for the Russian
army.... Go on... harder, harder!” he muttered, hunching his back and
presenting his fat shoulders.
“All right. Let Monsieur de Beausset enter, and Fabvier too,” he said,
nodding to the aide-de-camp.
“Yes, sire,” and the aide-de-camp disappeared through the door of the
tent.
Two valets rapidly dressed His Majesty, and wearing the blue uniform of
the Guards he went with firm quick steps to the reception room.
De Beausset’s hands meanwhile were busily engaged arranging the present
he had brought from the Empress, on two chairs directly in front of the
entrance. But Napoleon had dressed and come out with such unexpected
rapidity that he had not time to finish arranging the surprise.
Napoleon noticed at once what they were about and guessed that they were
not ready. He did not wish to deprive them of the pleasure of giving him
a surprise, so he pretended not to see de Beausset and called Fabvier to
him, listening silently and with a stern frown to what Fabvier told him
of the heroism and devotion of his troops fighting at Salamanca, at
the other end of Europe, with but one thought—to be worthy of their
Emperor—and but one fear—to fail to please him. The result of that
battle had been deplorable. Napoleon made ironic remarks during
Fabvier’s account, as if he had not expected that matters could go
otherwise in his absence.
“I must make up for that in Moscow,” said Napoleon. “I’ll see you
later,” he added, and summoned de Beausset, who by that time had
prepared the surprise, having placed something on the chairs and covered
it with a cloth.
De Beausset bowed low, with that courtly French bow which only the
old retainers of the Bourbons knew how to make, and approached him,
presenting an envelope.
Napoleon turned to him gaily and pulled his ear.
“You have hurried here. I am very glad. Well, what is Paris saying?” he
asked, suddenly changing his former stern expression for a most cordial
tone.
“Sire, all Paris regrets your absence,” replied de Beausset as was
proper.
But though Napoleon knew that de Beausset had to say something of this
kind, and though in his lucid moments he knew it was untrue, he was
pleased to hear it from him. Again he honored him by touching his ear.
“I am very sorry to have made you travel so far,” said he.
“Sire, I expected nothing less than to find you at the gates of Moscow,”
replied de Beausset.
Napoleon smiled and, lifting his head absent-mindedly, glanced to the
right. An aide-de-camp approached with gliding steps and offered him a
gold snuffbox, which he took.
“Yes, it has happened luckily for you,” he said, raising the open
snuffbox to his nose. “You are fond of travel, and in three days you
will see Moscow. You surely did not expect to see that Asiatic capital.
You will have a pleasant journey.”
De Beausset bowed gratefully at this regard for his taste for travel (of
which he had not till then been aware).
“Ha, what’s this?” asked Napoleon, noticing that all the courtiers were
looking at something concealed under a cloth.
With courtly adroitness de Beausset half turned and without turning his
back to the Emperor retired two steps, twitching off the cloth at the
same time, and said:
“A present to Your Majesty from the Empress.”
It was a portrait, painted in bright colors by Gérard, of the son borne
to Napoleon by the daughter of the Emperor of Austria, the boy whom for
some reason everyone called “The King of Rome.”
A very pretty curly-headed boy with a look of the Christ in the Sistine
Madonna was depicted playing at stick and ball. The ball represented the
terrestrial globe and the stick in his other hand a scepter.
Though it was not clear what the artist meant to express by depicting
the so-called King of Rome spiking the earth with a stick, the allegory
apparently seemed to Napoleon, as it had done to all who had seen it in
Paris, quite clear and very pleasing.
“The King of Rome!” he said, pointing to the portrait with a graceful
gesture. “Admirable!”
With the natural capacity of an Italian for changing the expression of
his face at will, he drew nearer to the portrait and assumed a look
of pensive tenderness. He felt that what he now said and did would be
historical, and it seemed to him that it would now be best for him—whose
grandeur enabled his son to play stick and ball with the terrestrial
globe—to show, in contrast to that grandeur, the simplest paternal
tenderness. His eyes grew dim, he moved forward, glanced round at a
chair (which seemed to place itself under him), and sat down on it
before the portrait. At a single gesture from him everyone went out on
tiptoe, leaving the great man to himself and his emotion.
Having sat still for a while he touched—himself not knowing why—the
thick spot of paint representing the highest light in the portrait,
rose, and recalled de Beausset and the officer on duty. He ordered the
portrait to be carried outside his tent, that the Old Guard, stationed
round it, might not be deprived of the pleasure of seeing the King of
Rome, the son and heir of their adored monarch.
And while he was doing M. de Beausset the honor of breakfasting with
him, they heard, as Napoleon had anticipated, the rapturous cries of the
officers and men of the Old Guard who had run up to see the portrait.
“Vive l’Empereur! Vive le roi de Rome! Vive l’Empereur!” came those
ecstatic cries.
After breakfast Napoleon in de Beausset’s presence dictated his order of
the day to the army.
“Short and energetic!” he remarked when he had read over the
proclamation which he had dictated straight off without corrections. It
ran:
Soldiers! This is the battle you have so longed for. Victory depends on
you. It is essential for us; it will give us all we need: comfortable
quarters and a speedy return to our country. Behave as you did at
Austerlitz, Friedland, Vítebsk, and Smolénsk. Let our remotest posterity
recall your achievements this day with pride. Let it be said of each of
you: “He was in the great battle before Moscow!”
“Before Moscow!” repeated Napoleon, and inviting M. de Beausset, who was
so fond of travel, to accompany him on his ride, he went out of the tent
to where the horses stood saddled.
“Your Majesty is too kind!” replied de Beausset to the invitation to
accompany the Emperor; he wanted to sleep, did not know how to ride and
was afraid of doing so.
But Napoleon nodded to the traveler, and de Beausset had to mount. When
Napoleon came out of the tent the shouting of the Guards before his
son’s portrait grew still louder. Napoleon frowned.
“Take him away!” he said, pointing with a gracefully majestic gesture to
the portrait. “It is too soon for him to see a field of battle.”
De Beausset closed his eyes, bowed his head, and sighed deeply, to
indicate how profoundly he valued and comprehended the Emperor’s words.
CHAPTER XXVII
On the twenty-fifth of August, so his historians tell us, Napoleon spent
the whole day on horseback inspecting the locality, considering plans
submitted to him by his marshals, and personally giving commands to his
generals.
The original line of the Russian forces along the river Kolochá had
been dislocated by the capture of the Shevárdino Redoubt on the
twenty-fourth, and part of the line—the left flank—had been drawn back.
That part of the line was not entrenched and in front of it the ground
was more open and level than elsewhere. It was evident to anyone,
military or not, that it was here the French should attack. It would
seem that not much consideration was needed to reach this conclusion,
nor any particular care or trouble on the part of the Emperor and his
marshals, nor was there any need of that special and supreme quality
called genius that people are so apt to ascribe to Napoleon; yet the
historians who described the event later and the men who then surrounded
Napoleon, and he himself, thought otherwise.
Napoleon rode over the plain and surveyed the locality with a profound
air and in silence, nodded with approval or shook his head dubiously,
and without communicating to the generals around him the profound
course of ideas which guided his decisions merely gave them his final
conclusions in the form of commands. Having listened to a suggestion
from Davout, who was now called Prince d’Eckmühl, to turn the Russian
left wing, Napoleon said it should not be done, without explaining
why not. To a proposal made by General Campan (who was to attack the
flèches) to lead his division through the woods, Napoleon agreed, though
the so-called Duke of Elchingen (Ney) ventured to remark that a movement
through the woods was dangerous and might disorder the division.
Having inspected the country opposite the Shevárdino Redoubt, Napoleon
pondered a little in silence and then indicated the spots where two
batteries should be set up by the morrow to act against the Russian
entrenchments, and the places where, in line with them, the field
artillery should be placed.
After giving these and other commands he returned to his tent, and the
dispositions for the battle were written down from his dictation.
These dispositions, of which the French historians write with enthusiasm
and other historians with profound respect, were as follows:
At dawn the two new batteries established during the night on the
plain occupied by the Prince d’Eckmühl will open fire on the opposing
batteries of the enemy.
At the same time the commander of the artillery of the 1st Corps,
General Pernetti, with thirty cannon of Campan’s division and all the
howitzers of Dessaix’s and Friant’s divisions, will move forward, open
fire, and overwhelm with shellfire the enemy’s battery, against which
will operate:
24 guns of the artillery of the Guards
30 guns of Campan’s division
and 8 guns of Friant’s and Dessaix’s divisions
—
in all 62 guns.
The commander of the artillery of the 3rd Corps, General Fouché, will
place the howitzers of the 3rd and 8th Corps, sixteen in all, on the
flanks of the battery that is to bombard the entrenchment on the left,
which will have forty guns in all directed against it.
General Sorbier must be ready at the first order to advance with all the
howitzers of the Guard’s artillery against either one or other of the
entrenchments.
During the cannonade Prince Poniatowski is to advance through the wood
on the village and turn the enemy’s position.
General Campan will move through the wood to seize the first
fortification.
After the advance has begun in this manner, orders will be given in
accordance with the enemy’s movements.
The cannonade on the left flank will begin as soon as the guns of the
right wing are heard. The sharpshooters of Morand’s division and of
the vice-King’s division will open a heavy fire on seeing the attack
commence on the right wing.
The vice-King will occupy the village and cross by its three bridges,
advancing to the same heights as Morand’s and Gibrard’s divisions, which