‘I’ll tell you what I think. Austria has been made a fool of, and she is not used to that. She’ll be out for vengeance. And why was she made a fool of? First, because her provinces have been pillaged (they say the Holy Russian army is good at looting), her army has been destroyed, her capital has been occupied, and all this to please the pretty eyes of his Sardinian Majesty. So, between you and me, old fellow, instinct tells me we’re having the wool pulled over our eyes. Instinct tells me of negotiations with France and plans for a peace treaty, a secret agreement done on the side.’
‘That’s impossible!’ said Prince Andrey. ‘That would be too vile for words.’
‘Time will tell,’ said Bilibin, relaxing the creases on his forehead again, an indication that the subject was now closed.
When Prince Andrey retired to the room they had prepared for him and lay down in clean sheets on the feather bed with his head on the fragrant, nicely warmed pillows, the battle he had come to report on seemed to have receded into the distant past. His mind was full of the Prussian alliance, the treachery of Austria, Bonaparte’s latest triumph, tomorrow’s parade and reception, and his audience with Emperor Francis. His eyes closed. Instantly his ears rang with cannon-fire, muskets discharging and rumbling wheels; he could see a long line of musketeers running downhill and the French firing back at them; he could feel his heart miss a beat and watch himself galloping to the front with Schmidt, with bullets whistling all around him, and he was once again enjoying that tenfold delight in living that he had not known since childhood.
Then he woke.
‘Yes, it really did happen!’ he told himself with the happy smile of a young child, before relapsing into a deep, youthful slumber.
CHAPTER 11
Next morning he woke late. Reviewing his recent impressions, he remembered first of all that today he was to be presented to the Emperor Francis, and he also recalled the minister of war, the unctuous adjutant, Bilibin and last night’s conversation. He put on his full dress uniform, which he had not worn for a long time, and walked into Bilibin’s room with his arm in a sling, looking fresh, eager and handsome. Four gentlemen of the diplomatic corps were already there. Prince Hippolyte Kuragin, a secretary in the embassy, was already known to him; Bilibin introduced the others.
The visitors were a set of fashionable, wealthy and high-spirited young men who made up a special circle, originally in Vienna and now in Brno, a circle which Bilibin, their leader, referred to as ‘our people’. They were almost all diplomats, but their interests extended well beyond the war and politics to take in fashionable society, relations with certain women and the official side of the service. These young gentlemen clearly took to Prince Andrey, welcoming him straightaway as ‘one of ours’ – a rare distinction. Out of politeness and to break the ice they asked him one or two questions about the army and the battle, but soon the conversation slipped back into inconsequential chitchat, jokes and gossip.
‘No, but the best bit of all,’ said one of them, describing a disaster that had happened to a service colleague, ‘yes, the best bit was that the minister had told him that his appointment to London was definitely a promotion and that was how he should see it. Imagine his face! . . .’
‘Worse than that, gentlemen – now I’m going to give Kuragin away – a fellow runs into a bit of trouble and this Don Juan takes full advantage! Shocking fellow!’
Prince Hippolyte was sprawling in a Voltaire armchair with his legs over the arm. He laughed and said, ‘Tell me more.’
‘Don Juan! You reptile!’ cried various voices.
‘Something you don’t know, Bolkonsky,’ said Bilibin, turning to Prince Andrey. ‘All the atrocities of the, er, French army – I nearly said the Russian army – are nothing compared with this fellow’s achievements with women.’
‘A woman is . . . a good companion for a man,’ declared Prince Hippolyte, peering at his elevated legs through a lorgnette.
Bilibin and the rest of ‘our people’ roared with laughter, staring at Hippolyte. Prince Andrey could now see that this Hippolyte, who, if he was honest about it, had brought him to the verge of jealousy over his wife, was the butt of this circle.
‘No, I must treat you to a bit of Kuragin,’ Bilibin whispered to Bolkonsky. ‘He’s wonderful when you get him going on politics. You must see the depth of his thinking.’
He sat down by Hippolyte, wrinkled up his forehead and started a conversation about politics. Prince Andrey and the others gathered round.
‘The Berlin cabinet cannot express any feelings concerning an alliance,’ Hippolyte began, with a knowing look, ‘without expressing . . . as in its last note . . . you do see, don’t you? . . . And besides, if his Majesty the Emperor doesn’t go back on the principle of our alliance . . .’
