‘Oh yes, my dear Monsieur Pierre, I owe you a candle in church for saving me from that madman. I’ve got quite enough bullets in my body, you know. Here’s one from Wagram,’ (he pointed to his side) ‘and two from Smolensk’ (the scar on his cheek). ‘And there’s this leg that won’t walk, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. I got that at the great battle outside la Moskova on the 7th.’ (The reference was to Borodino.) ‘My God, that was a splendid day! You should have seen it – a deluge of fire. You gave us a tough time there. Something to be proud of, I’ll say! And do you know? I might have caught a bit of a cold, but I’d do it all over again. I’m sorry for anyone who wasn’t there.’
‘I was,’ said Pierre.
‘Were you really?’ pursued the Frenchman. ‘Oh well, all the better then. You are proud enemies, though. The big redoubt was well held, for goodness’ sake. And you made us pay for it too! I went at it three times, sure as I’m sitting here. Three times we were right on top of the cannons, and three times we were driven back like men of cardboard. Oh, it was splendid, Monsieur Pierre. Your grenadiers were superb, by God. I watched them close ranks six times in succession and march as if they were out on parade. Wonderful men. Our king of Naples, who knows it all backwards, yelled out, “Bravo!” ‘Aha! Soldiers like us!’ he said after a moment’s silence. ‘All the better, Monsieur Pierre, all the better. Terrible in war . . . chivalrous with the fair sex.’ (He gave a wink and a smile.) ‘There you have the French, M. Pierre. Isn’t that right?’
The captain was so simple-hearted and good-humoured, so cheery, self-contained and pleased with himself that Pierre almost winked back as he enjoyed watching him. It was probably the mention of chivalry that brought the captain round to contemplating the state of things in Moscow.
‘By the way, do tell me, is it true that all the women have left Moscow? What a curious idea! What were they frightened of?’
‘Wouldn’t the French ladies leave Paris if the Russians came?’ said Pierre.
‘Ha-ha-ha!’ The Frenchman burst out in a roar of spirited laughter, clapping Pierre on the shoulder. ‘That’s a good one, that is!’ he went on. ‘Paris . . . But Paris . . . Paris . . .’
‘Paris is the capital of the world,’ said Pierre, finishing the sentence for him.
The captain looked at Pierre. He had the habit of stopping in mid-conversation and staring closely with his gentle, laughing eyes.
‘Well, if you hadn’t told me you’re a Russian I would have laid odds you came from Paris. You have that indefinable quality . . .’ and after this compliment he stared at him again in silence.
‘I have been in Paris. I spent years there,’ said Pierre.
‘I can see that! Paris! A man who doesn’t know Paris is a barbarian . . . You can spot a Parisian a mile off. Paris is . . . Talma, la Duchénois, Potier, the Sorbonne . . . 5 the boulevards.’ But, suddenly aware that this conclusion was becoming rather anti-climactic, he hastened to add, ‘There is only one Paris in the world . . . You’ve been in Paris, but you stayed Russian. Well, I don’t think any the less of you for that.’
Pierre was now feeling the effect of the wine, and after several days spent alone with his gloomy thoughts he found himself drawn irresistibly into enjoying this conversation with such a cheerful and good-hearted person.
‘To return to your ladies – I hear they are very beautiful. What a ridiculous idea to go and bury themselves out on the steppe when the French army is in Moscow. What a lost opportunity! Your peasants are different, but you civilized people ought to know us better than that. We have taken Vienna, Berlin, Madrid, Naples, Rome, Warsaw – every capital in the world. We are feared, but we are also loved. We are worth knowing. And as for the Emperor . . .’ he started to say, but Pierre cut across him.
‘The Emperor,’ he repeated, his face looking suddenly sombre and embarrassed. ‘Is the Emperor . . . ?’
‘The Emperor? He is generosity, mercy, justice, order, genius – that’s what the Emperor is. I can vouch for it . . . I, Ramballe, the man you see before you, was an enemy of his eight years ago. My father was an émigré count. But he has won me over, that man has. Taken hold of me. I couldn’t resist the spectacle of the greatness and glory he was heaping on France. When I understood what he wanted, when I saw he was preparing a bed of laurels for us, I said to myself, you know, “This is a monarch!” And I gave myself up to him. Oh yes, he is the greatest man of past centuries and those to come.’
‘But is he here in Moscow?’ Pierre asked, hesitantly, with a shifty look.
‘No, he will make his entry tomorrow,’ said the French officer, and he went on with his chatter.
