‘So you don’t consider the Emperor Alexander to be the instigator?’ he said suddenly, with a pleasant but fatuous smile.
Balashev told him precisely why he thought Napoleon was the war-monger.
‘Ah, my dear general,’ said Murat, interrupting again. ‘I hope with all my heart the Emperors will come to some arrangement, and the war that has started by no desire of mine is brought to an end as soon as possible,’ he said in the tone used by servants who want to go on being good friends even though their masters have quarrelled. Changing the subject, he inquired after the health of the grand duke, and recalled a most enjoyable time spent with him in Naples. Then, suddenly aware once again of his regal standing, Murat drew himself up into the splendid pose he had adopted for his coronation, and said with a wave of his right arm, ‘I will detain you no longer, General. I wish you every success in your mission.’ And, awhirl with plumes and embroidered scarlet cloak, and glinting with jewellery, he rejoined his patiently waiting entourage.
Balashev rode on, fully expecting from what Murat had said that he would be presented to Napoleon himself in no time at all. But instead of being taken straight to Napoleon he was detained at the entry to the next village by sentries from Davout’s infantry corps, just as he had been at the front line, and an adjutant of the corps commander was summoned to take him into the village for a meeting with Marshal Davout himself.
CHAPTER 5
Davout was Napoleon’s Arakcheyev, without his cowardice, but just as demanding and cruel as Alexander’s Arakcheyev, and equally incapable of expressing his devotion by anything other than viciousness.
The organism of any state needs men like these in the way that the organism of nature needs wolves, and they are always there, showing themselves and holding their own, no matter how incongruous their presence and proximity to the head of the state may seem. This law of inevitability is the only way of explaining the fact that such a vicious man, capable of ripping out grenadiers’ moustaches yet running scared of all danger because of his nerves, a man as uncultivated and boorish as Arakcheyev, managed to enjoy lasting authority alongside a sovereign like Alexander, with all his gentle, chivalrous and noble character.
Balashev found Davout sitting on a tub in the indoor shed of a peasant’s hut. He was busy writing, checking some accounts. An adjutant stood at his side. Better quarters could have been found, but Marshal Davout was one of those people who deliberately get themselves into the gloomiest circumstances in order to have the right to be gloomy. For the same reason they are always pressed for time and overburdened with work. ‘Oh, it’s all right for you thinking about the bright side of life, but look at me sitting on this tub in a filthy shed, hard at work!’ said the expression on his face.
The greatest pleasure and sole requirement of people like this when they come across someone enjoying a busy life is to throw their own plodding and gloomy activity straight in his face. Davout allowed himself this pleasure when Balashev was brought before him. He plunged deeper into his work when the Russian general came in, though he did glance up through his spectacles at Balashev’s face, a picture of excitement deriving from the loveliness of the morning and his talk with Murat; he did not rise, he did not budge, but he darkened his scowl with a nasty sneer.
Noting that Balashev’s face had fallen at this reception, Davout looked across and asked him icily what he wanted.
Balashev could only imagine that he was being received like this only because Davout was unaware that he was a general on Alexander’s staff, and his personal representative before Napoleon, so he lost no time in stating his rank and his mission. Against all expectations, when Davout had listened to what Balashev had to say he became even more uncouth and surly.
‘Where’s your dispatch?’ he snapped. ‘Give it to me. I’ll send it to the Emperor.’
Balashev said he was under orders to hand the document to the Emperor in person.
‘Your Emperor’s orders are obeyed in your army, but here,’ said Davout, ‘you’ll do as you’re told.’
And, as if to make the Russian general even more conscious of being subject to brute force, Davout sent the adjutant to fetch the duty officer.
Balashev took out the packet containing the Tsar’s letter and laid it on the table (a table consisting of a door laid across two tubs with the torn-off hinges still dangling from it). Davout took the envelope and read the address.
‘You are perfectly at liberty to show me respect or not,’ said Balashev, ‘but, allow me to observe that I have the honour to serve as a general on his Majesty’s staff . . .’
Davout glanced at him without saying a word, obviously delighted to observe signs of emotion and embarrassment on Balashev’s face.
