It was the diminutive Bonaparte speaking, looking up straight into Alexander’s eyes. Alexander listened attentively to what was being said, then inclined his head and gave an amiable smile.
‘To the man who conducted himself with the greatest courage in this last war,’ added Napoleon with precise enunciation of every syllable. He was scanning the ranks of Russian soldiers drawn up before him, still rigidly presenting arms but with their eyes fixed on the face of their own Emperor. Napoleon’s air of authority and self-possession turned Rostov’s stomach.
‘If your Majesty will allow me to consult the colonel . . .’ said Alexander, and he took a few hurried steps towards Prince Kozlovsky, the battalion commander. Meanwhile Bonaparte was peeling the glove off one of his little white hands, and he now tore it off and threw it away. An adjutant standing behind rushed forward eagerly and picked it up.
‘Whom do we give it to?’ the Emperor Alexander asked of Kozlovsky in Russian in a low voice.
‘As your Majesty commands.’
The Emperor frowned with displeasure, glanced around and said, ‘Well, we must give him an answer.’
Kozlovsky scanned the ranks in a businesslike manner, and his glance took in Rostov.
‘Is it me?’ thought Rostov.
‘Lazarev!’ The colonel scowled as he gave the command and Lazarev, their best marksman, stepped smartly forward.
‘Where do you think you’re going? Stand still!’ voices whispered to Lazarev, who didn’t know where to go. Lazarev came to halt, angling a scared look at his colonel, and his face twitched, as often happens to soldiers called out in front.
Napoleon half-turned his head and flapped a podgy little hand behind him, as if he was expecting to be handed something. Among the members of his suite, who knew immediately what was wanted, there was a great fuss and much whispering as something was passed from hand to hand, and then a page-boy, the same boy that Rostov had seen yesterday evening at Boris’s house, trotted forward, bowed over the outstretched hand without keeping it waiting a second longer than was necessary, and placed in it a medal on a red ribbon. Without even looking, Napoleon squeezed two fingers together and there was the medal dangling between them. He then walked over to Lazarev, who stood there goggling, with eyes only for his own Emperor. Napoleon looked round at the Emperor Alexander to emphasize that what he was now doing he was doing for the benefit of his ally. The little white hand holding the medal brushed against a button on Private Lazarev’s uniform. Napoleon seemed fully aware that all he had to do was deign to touch this private soldier on the breast and it would ensure that he would be for ever happy, well rewarded and distinguished from every other soldier in the world. He merely left the cross lying there on Lazarev’s breast, dropped his hand and turned to Alexander apparently in no doubt that the medal would stick. And indeed it did, because many eager hands, Russian and French, were waiting to grab the cross and pin it to the uniform.
Lazarev scowled at the little man with white hands who had done something to him, and he continued to stand rigidly to attention, presenting arms, while staring straight at Alexander, as if asking for further instructions – should he just stand there, march off or do something else? No instructions were forthcoming so he stayed where he was for quite some time in the same state of rigidity.
The Emperors mounted their horses and rode away. The Preobrazhensky battalion was dismissed, and the men went to mingle with the French guards and sit down at the tables which had been set for them.
Lazarev was given a place of honour. French and Russian officers came to embrace him, congratulate him and shake him by the hand. Officers and common people crowded round just to have a look at Lazarev. There was a buzz of conversation in French and Russian and much laughter round the tables in the square. Two officers passed by near to Rostov, red-faced, merry and bright.
‘How’s this for a banquet, old man? Everything served up on silver,’ one was saying. ‘Seen Lazarev?’
‘Yes.’
‘I gather the Preobrazhenskys are going to give them a dinner tomorrow.’
‘Yes, but what about Lazarev, lucky devil! Pension for life – twelve hundred francs.’
‘How about this for a cap, boys!’ yelled a Preobrazhensky soldier, putting on a French soldier’s shaggy cap.
‘Great stuff! It suits you!’
‘Have you heard the latest response?’ said one guards officer to another. ‘The other day it was “Napoleon, France, Fortitude”; today it’s “Alexander, Russia, Magnitude”. Our Emperor calls, Napoleon responds. Tomorrow our Emperor’s sending the St George to the bravest man in the French guards. Got to do it! Same response needed.’
