This was the earliest stage of a campaign, when the troops were still in a state of peaceful activity and good order, virtually ready for parade, with the right touch of military stylishness in their dress and the spirited bravado that always accompanies the start of a campaign.
Despite a struggle to suppress his yawns the French colonel was courteous enough, and the full significance of Balashev’s arrival was not lost on him. He conducted him through the lines and informed him that his wish for an audience with the Emperor was likely to be immediately satisfied, since he had been led to believe the Emperor’s quarters were not too far away.
They rode through the village of Rykonty, past French tethered horses, sentries and soldiers, who saluted their colonel, goggling at the sight of a Russian uniform. They came out on the other side of the village, and the colonel told Balashev they were not much more than a mile from the divisional commander, who would receive him and take him on to his destination.
The sun was now well up in the sky, shining merrily down on the bright green countryside.
They had just passed an inn on an uphill slope when a group of horsemen came riding down towards them led by a tall figure of a man sporting a plumed hat, a scarlet cloak, and shoulder-length black hair. His black horse bore trappings that glittered in the sun and he rode in the French manner, sticking his long legs out in front. This rider bore down on Balashev, ablaze in the bright June sunshine and aflutter with feathers, jewellery and gold lace trimmings.
This stately and theatrical galloping rider, a mass of bracelets, plumes, necklaces and gold, was within a couple of horse-lengths of Balashev when Julner, the French colonel, said to him in an awe-struck whisper, ‘The King of Naples’.5 It was actually General Murat, but he was now called the ‘King of Naples’. It was beyond all understanding how he could have become the King of Naples, but that was what they had called him and he, far from entertaining any doubts, behaved with more stateliness and gravity than ever before. He was so convinced of his standing as the King of Naples that when some Italians shouted ‘Long live the King!’ as he walked the streets with his wife just before leaving Naples, he turned to her with a poignant smile and said, ‘These poor people, they don’t know I’m leaving them tomorrow.’
But despite his firm belief that he was King of Naples, and his sympathy for his subjects in their grief at losing him, in recent days, after he had been ordered back into service, and especially after his meeting with Napoleon at Danzig, when his most eminent brother-in-law had said, ‘I have made you a king for you to rule my way, and not yours,’ he had resumed his familiar duties with all enthusiasm and now behaved like a well-fed but not overweight stallion feeling the touch of his harness and prancing about in the shafts; festooned with all colours and expensive trinkets, he now galloped the highways of Poland without the slightest idea where he was going or why.
Suddenly catching sight of a Russian general, he made a splendid royal gesture with his head, tossing back his mane of wavy curls, and looked quizzically at the French colonel. The colonel told his Majesty politely about Balashev and his mission, without being able to get his tongue round the name. ‘De Bal-macheve!’6 said the King, sweeping aside the colonel’s difficulty by sheer determination, and adding, with regal magnanimity, ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, general.’ As soon as the King started speaking more loudly and quickly, his regal bearing deserted him in an instant, and, without noticing it, he lapsed into his natural tone of bonhomie and familiarity. He rested a hand on the withers of Balashev’s horse.
‘Well, General, it looks very much like war,’ he said, ruefully implying that this was a matter that demanded his impartiality. ‘Your Majesty,’ answered Balashev, ‘the Emperor, my master, has no desire for war, and as your Majesty can see . . .’ Balashev was ringing all the grammatical changes of ‘your Majesty’, using the title with the affectation that is inevitable when addressing a personage for whom the title in question is still a novelty.
Murat’s face beamed with idiotic smugness as he listened to ‘Monsieur de Balacheff’. But royalty imposes obligations. As King and ally, he felt compelled to engage Alexander’s envoy in conversation about matters of state. He dismounted, took Balashev by the arm and walked a few steps away from his entourage, who stayed behind waiting patiently, only to pace up and down with him, trying to say serious things. He mentioned that the Emperor Napoleon had been much offended by the demand for the withdrawal of his troops from Prussia, especially since news of the demand had leaked out, thus impugning the dignity of France. Balashev began to say that the demand was in no way offensive, because . . . but Murat cut across him.
