The officers got up and surrounded the Cossacks and the prisoner. The French dragoon was a young boy from Alsace who spoke French with a German accent. Red in the face and breathless with excitement, once he heard the French language he began jabbering at all of the officers, all of them one after another. He said he wouldn’t have been caught, it wasn’t his fault that he had been, it was the corporal’s fault, he’d sent him for some horse-cloths, though he had told him the Russians were there. And all the time he kept on stroking his charger and saying, ‘Please don’t let them hurt my little horse.’ He obviously had no idea where he was. One minute he was apologizing for having been taken prisoner, the next he was trying to prove to imaginary superior officers what a good, keen serving soldier he was. He was wafting over to us in the rearguard the full flavour of the French army, which we found utterly alien.
The Cossacks sold the horse for two gold pieces, and since Rostov was currently the richest officer, having just received money from home, he bought it.
‘Please don’t hurt my little horse!’ the Alsatian said lovingly to Rostov as the horse was handed over.
Rostov reassured the dragoon with a smile and gave him some money.
‘Alley! Alley!’ said one of the Cossacks, plucking the prisoner by the arm to make him walk on.
‘The Tsar’s coming! It’s him!’ came a sudden call among the hussars. There was a frenzied scurrying and Rostov saw several horsemen with white plumes in their hats, riding up the road towards them. Everyone snapped into place and stood waiting.
Rostov had no sense or recollection of rushing to his post and getting on his horse. His disappointment at missing the battle disappeared in a flash, along with his jaded mood among familiar faces. All thought of self had vanished – he was totally absorbed in the blissful feeling brought on by the Emperor’s approach, which was more than enough to compensate for a lost day. He was as happy as a lover when at last he meets his beloved. Too scared to glance down the line and without needing to, he thrilled to the sense of
‘Are you the Pavlograd hussars?’ came his inquiry.
‘The reserve, sire,’ replied a voice, so down to earth after the supernatural voice that had uttered the words, ‘Are you the Pavlograd hussars?’
The Tsar came alongside Rostov and stopped. Alexander’s face was even finer than at the inspection three days before. It glowed with the boyish delight and youthful innocence of a giddy fourteen-year-old, yet it was still the face of a majestic emperor. Glancing casually along the squadron, the Tsar’s eyes met Rostov’s, and lingered there not more than two seconds. Whether or not the Tsar could tell what was happening in the depths of Rostov’s soul (and Rostov was almost sure that he could), he did stare into Rostov’s face for two solid seconds, with his blue eyes emitting a soft and gentle radiance. Then with a sudden jerk of his eyebrows he stabbed his left foot sharply back into his horse, galloped off and was gone.
Once he had heard firing from the front the young Emperor couldn’t resist the temptation to go and watch the fighting, so at twelve o’clock, ignoring all protests from his courtiers, he had left the escorting third column and ridden towards the vanguard. Before he could catch up with the hussars, however, several adjutants met him with news of the engagement and its successful outcome.
