‘That’s the whole point,’ answered Bilibin. ‘Listen. The French enter Vienna, as I told you. Everything is satisfactory. Next day, that is yesterday, Messieurs les Marechaux, Murat, Lannes, and Beliard get on their horses and ride off to the bridge. (Remark that all three are Gascons.) '‘Gentlemen,” says one, “you know that the Tabor bridge has been mined and countermined, and is protected by a formidable fortification and
fifteen thousand troops, who have orders to blow up the bridge and not to let us pass. But our gracious Emperor Napoleon will be pleased if we take the bridge. Let us go us three and take it.” “Yes, let us go,” say the others; and they start off and take the bridge, cross it, and now wi'th their whole army on this side of the Danube, they are coming straight upon us, and upon you and your communications.’
‘Leave off jesting,’ said Prince Andrey, with mournful seriousness. The news grieved Prince Andrey, and yet it gave him pleasure. As soon as he heard that the Russian army was in such a hopeless position, the idea struck him that he was the very man destined to extricate the Russian army from that position, and that it had come—the Toulon—that would lift him for ever from out of the ranks of unknown officers, and open the first path to glory for him! As he listened to Bilibin, he was already considering how, on reaching the army, he would, at a council of war, give the opinion that alone could save the army, and how he would be entrusted alone to execute the plan.
‘Leave off joking,’ he said.
‘I’m not joking,’ Bilibin went on. ‘Nothing could be more truthful or more melancholy. These three gentlemen advance to the bridge alone and wave white handkerchiefs; they declare that it’s a truce, and that they, the marshals, are come for a parley with Prince Auersperg. The officer on duty lets them into the tete du pout. They tell him a thousand Gascon absurdities; say that the war is over, that Emperor Francis has arranged a meeting with Bonaparte, that they desire to see Prince Auersperg, and so on. The officer sends for Auersperg. These Gascon gentlemen embrace the officers, make jokes, and sit about on the cannons, while a French battalion meantime advances unnoticed on the bridge, flings the sacks of inflammable material into the river, and marches up to the tete du pont. Finally the lieutenant-general himself appears, our dear Prince Auersperg von Mautern. “My dear enemy! Flower of Austrian chivalry! hero of the Turkish war! Hostility is at end, we can take each other’s hands . . . the Emperor Napoleon burns with impatience to make the acquaintance of Prince Auersperg.” In a word, these gentlemen—not Gascons for nothing —so bewilder Auersperg with fair words—he is so flattered at this speedy intimacy with French marshals, so dazzled by the spectacle of their cloaks, and of the ostrich feathers of Murat—that their fire gets into his eyes and makes him forget that he ought to be firing on the enemy’ (in spite of the interest of his story, Bilibin did not omit to pause after this mot, to give time for its appreciation). ‘A French battalion runs into the tete du pont ; spikes the cannons, and the bridge is taken. No, but really the best part of the whole episode,’ he went on, his excitement subsiding under the interest of his own story, ‘is that the sergeant in charge of the cannon which was to give the signal for firing the mines and blowing up the bridge, this sergeant seeing the French troops running on to the bridge wanted to fire, but Lannes pulled his arm away. The sergeant, who seems to have been sharper than his general, goes up to Auersperg and says: “Prince, they’re deceiving you, here are the French!” Murat sees the game is up if he lets
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the sergeant have his say. With an affectation of surprise (a true Gascon!) he addresses Auersperg: “Is this the Austrian discipline so highly extolled all over the world,” says he, “do you let a man of low rank speak to you like this?” It was a stroke of genius. The Prince of Auersperg is touched in his honour and has the sergeant put under arrest. No, but confess that all this story of the bridge of Tabor is charming. It is neither stupidity, nor cowardice . . .’
‘It is treason, perhaps,’ said Prince Andrey, vividly picturing to himself grey overcoats, wounds, the smoke and sound of firing, and the glory awaiting him.
‘Not that either. This puts the court into a pretty pickle,’ pursued Bilibin. ‘It is not treason, nor cowardice, nor stupidity; it is just as it was at Ulm . . .’ He seemed to ponder, seeking the phrase, ‘it is . . . c’est du Mack. Nous sommes mackes,’ he said, feeling he was uttering un mot, and a fresh one, one that would be repeated. His creased-up brows let the puckers smooth out quickly in sign of satisfaction, and with a faint smile he fell to scrutinizing his finger-nails.
‘Where are you off to?’ he said, suddenly turning to Prince Andrey, who had got up and was going to his room.
‘I must start.’
‘Where to?’
