Despite all that Bilibin had said, his news was received with rejoicing. A service of thanksgiving was arranged. Kutuzov was awarded the Grand Cross of Maria Theresa, and further awards went to the whole army. Bolkonsky received invitations from all and sundry, and spent the whole morning paying visits to the top people in the Austrian government. These went on into the afternoon and it was past four o’clock when Prince Andrey was able to make his way back to Bilibin’s, mentally composing a letter to his father about the battle and his reception at Brno. On the way he stopped off at a bookshop to stock up on reading material for the campaign, and stayed there for some time. When he finally reached the steps of Bilibin’s house, there stood a carriage half-stowed with luggage, and here was Franz, Bilibin’s servant, struggling in the doorway with a travelling trunk.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Bolkonsky.
‘Oh dear, your Excellency!’ said Franz, heaving the trunk on to the carriage. ‘We’re moving on. That villain’s at our heels again!’
‘You what?’ queried Prince Andrey.
Bilibin came out to meet Bolkonsky. His usually composed face showed some agitation.
‘No, no, you’ll have to admit there’s a nice little story here,’ he said. ‘It’s the Tabor bridge at Vienna – they crossed it without a shot being fired.’
Prince Andrey couldn’t follow him.
‘Where’ve you been? You don’t seem to know what every coachman in the town has heard by now.’
‘I’ve been with the Archduchess. I heard nothing there.’
‘Haven’t you seen everybody packing their things?’
‘I haven’t seen anything . . . What’s gone wrong?’ Prince Andrey asked impatiently.
‘Gone wrong? What’s gone wrong is that the French have crossed the bridge that Auersperg was supposed to be defending, and they didn’t blow it up, so even as we speak Murat is coming hotfoot down the road to Brno, and they’ll be here soon – tomorrow at the latest.’
‘What do you mean? Why wasn’t the bridge blown up? I thought it had been mined.’
‘Why? That’s what I’m asking you. Nobody knows why. Even Bonaparte doesn’t know why.’
Bolkonsky shrugged.
‘But if they’re over the bridge, the army’s finished. It’ll be cut off,’ he said.
‘Of course it will,’ answered Bilibin. ‘Listen to this. The French enter Vienna, as I said. Fine. The following day, yesterday, Marshals Murat, Lannes and Beliard jump on their horses and ride down to the bridge. (Please note: all three are Gascons.)11 “Gentlemen,” says one, “you know the Tabor bridge has been mined and countermined. It is protected by formidable defences, oh and fifteen thousand troops with orders to blow it up and stop us getting across. But our Sovereign Emperor Napoleon will be very pleased if we take the bridge. So, let the three of us go and take it.” “Yes, let’s,” say the others, and they set off and they take the bridge, and they march across, and now with their entire army on this side of the Danube they’re heading straight for us – and for you and your lines of communication.’
‘It’s no joke,’ said Prince Andrey, saddened and serious. The news grieved Prince Andrey, but it also gave him pleasure. Once he knew the Russian army was in such a hopeless situation, it immediately occurred to him that he might be the very man destined to extricate the Russian army from that situation, and that just as Napoleon rose from obscurity at Toulon12 this was where he would be raised for ever from the ranks of anonymous officers. This was his first step on the road to glory! Even as he listened to Bilibin he could see himself getting through to the army, presenting to a council of war his version of events, the army’s only salvation, and taking personal responsibility for the execution of his plan.
‘It’s no joke,’ he said.
