rench adroitness and the Italian actor…faculty！ You know the anecdote about Bonaparte and Count Markov？ Count Markov was the only person who knew how to treat him。 You know the story of the handkerchief？ It’s a gem！” And the talkative Dolgorukov turning from Boris to Prince Andrey told the story of how Bonaparte； to test Markov； our ambassador； had purposely dropped his handkerchief before him； and had stood looking at him； probably expecting Markov to pick it up for him； and how Markov promptly dropped his own beside it； and had picked up his own without touching Bonaparte’s。
“Capital；” said Bolkonsky。 “But； prince； I have come to you as a petitioner in behalf of this young friend。 You see …” But before Prince Andrey could finish； an adjutant came into the room to summon Prince Dolgorukov to the Emperor。
“Ah； how annoying！” said Dolgorukov； getting up hurriedly and shaking hands with Prince Andrey and Boris。 “You know I shall be very glad to do all that depends on me both for you and for this charming young man。” Once more he shook hands with Boris with an expression of good…natured； genuine； heedless gaiety。 “But you see … another time！”
Boris was excited by the thought of being so close to the higher powers； as he felt himself to be at that instant。 He was conscious here of being in contact with the springs that controlled all those vast movements of the masses； of which in his regiment he felt himself a tiny； humble； and insignificant part。 They followed Prince Dolgorukov out into the corridor and met （coming out of the door of the Tsar’s room at which Dolgorukov went in） a short man in civilian dress with a shrewd face and a sharply projecting lower jaw； which； without spoiling his face； gave him a peculiar alertness and shiftiness of expression。 This short man nodded to Dolgorukov； as if he were an intimate friend； and stared with an intently cold gaze at Prince Andrey； walking straight towards him and apparently expecting him to bow or move out of his way。 Prince Andrey did neither； there was a vindictive look on his face； and the short young man turned away and walked at the side of the corridor。
“Who’s that？” asked Boris。
“That’s one of the most remarkable men—and the most unpleasant to me。 The minister of foreign affairs； Prince Adam Tchartorizhsky。”
“Those are the men；” added Bolkonsky with a sigh which he could not suppress； as they went out of the palace； “those are the men who decide the fates of nations。”
Next day the troops set off on the march； and up to the time of the battle of Austerlitz； Boris did not succeed in seeing Bolkonsky or Dolgorukov again； and remained for a while in the Ismailov regiment。
Chapter 10
AT DAWN on the 16th； Denisov’s squadron； in which Nikolay Rostov was serving； and which formed part of Prince Bagration’s detachment； moved on from its halting place for the night—to advance into action； as was said。 After about a mile’s march； in the rear of other columns； it was brought to a standstill on the high…road。 Rostov saw the Cossacks； the first and second squadrons of hussars； and the infantry battalions with the artillery pass him and march on ahead； he also saw the Generals Bagration and Dolgorukov ride by with their adjutants。 All the panic he had felt； as before； at the prospect of battle； all the inner conflict by means of which he had overcome that panic； all his dreams of distinguishing himself in true hussar style in this battle—all were for nothing。 His squadron was held back in reserve； and Nikolay Rostov spent a tedious and wretched day。 About nine o’clock in the morning he heard firing ahead of him； and shouts of hurrah； saw the wounded being brought back （there were not many of them）； and finally saw a whole detachment of French cavalry being brought away in the midst of a company of Cossacks。 Obviously the action was over； and the action had； obviously； been a small one； but successful。 The soldiers and officers as they came back were talking of a brilliant victory； of the taking of the town of Vishau； and a whole French squadron taken prisoners。 The day was bright and sunny after a sharp frost at night； and the cheerful brightness of the autumn day was in keeping with the news of victory； which was told not only by the accounts of those who had taken part in it； but by the joyful expression of soldiers； officers； generals； and adjutants； who rode to and fro by Rostov。 All the greater was the pang in Nikolay’s heart that he should have suffered the dread that goes before the battle for nothing； and have spent that happy day in inactivity。
“Rostov； come here； let’s drink ‘begone； dull care！’ ” shouted Denisov； sitting at the roadside before a bottle and some edibles。 The officers gathered in a ring； eating and talking； round Denisov’s wine…case。
“Here they’re bringing another！” said one of the officers； pointing to a French prisoner； a dragoon； who was being led on foot by two Cossacks。 One of them was leading by the bridle the prisoner’s horse； a tall and beautiful French beast。
“Sell the horse？” Denisov called to the Cossacks。
“If you will； your honour。”
The officers got up and stood round the Cossacks and the prisoner。 The French dragoon was a young fellow； an Alsatian who spoke French with a German accent。 He was breathless with excitement； his face was red； and hearing French spoken he began quickly speaking to the officers； turning from one to another。 He said that they wouldn’t have taken him； that it wasn’t his fault he was taken； but the fault of the corporal； who had sent him to get the horsecloths； that he had told him the Russians were there。 And at every word he added： “But don’t let anybody hurt my little horse；” and stroked his horse。 It was evident that he did not quite grasp where he was。 At one moment he was excusing himself for having been taken prisoner； at the next； imagining himself before his superior officers； he was trying to prove his soldierly discipline and zeal for the service。 He brought with him in all its freshness into our rearguard the atmosphere of the French army； so alien to us。
The Cossacks sold the horse for two gold pieces； and Rostov； being the richest of the officers since he had received money from home； bought it。
“Be good to the little horse！” the Alsatian said with simple…hearted good…nature to Rostov； when the horse was handed to the hussar。
Rostov smiling； soothed the dragoon； and gave him money。
“Alley！ Alley！” said the Cossack； touching the prisoner’s arm to make him go on。
“The Emperor！ the Emperor！” was suddenly heard among the hussars。 Everything was bustle and hurry； and Rostov saw behind them on the road several horsemen riding up with white plumes in their hats。 In a single moment all were in their places and eagerly expectant。
Rostov had no memory and no consciousness of how he ran to his post and got on his horse。 Instantly his regret at not taking part in the battle； his humdrum mood among the men he saw every day—all was gone； instantly all thought of self had vanished。 He was entirely absorbed in the feeling of happiness at the Tsar’s being near。 His nearness alone made up to him by itself； he felt； for the loss of the whole day。 He was happy； as a lover is happy when the moment of the longed…for meeting has come。 Not daring to look round from the front line； by an ecstatic instinct without looking round； he felt his approach。 And he felt it not only from the sound of the tramping hoofs of the approaching cavalcade； he felt it because as the Tsar came nearer everything grew brighter； more joyful and significant； and more festive。 Nearer and nearer moved this sun； as he seemed to Rostov； shedding around him rays of mild and majestic light； and now he felt himself enfolded in that radiance； he heard his voice—that voice caressing； calm； majestic； and yet so simple。 A deathlike silence had come—as seemed to Rostov fitting—and in that silence he heard the sound of the Tsar’s voice。
“The Pavlograd hussars？” he was saying interrogatively
“The reserve； sire；” replied a voice—such a human voice； after the superhuman voice that had said： “Les hussards de Pavlograd？”
The Tsar was on a level with Rostov； and he stood still there。 Alexander’s face was even handsomer than it had been at the review three days before。 It beamed with such gaiety and youth； such innocent youthfulness； that suggested the playfulness of a boy of fourteen； and yet it was still the face of the majestic Emperor。 Glancing casually along the squadron； the Tsar’s eyes met the eyes of Rostov； and for not more than two seconds rested on them。 Whether it was that the Tsar saw what was passing in Rostov’s soul （it seemed to Rostov that he saw everything）； any way he looked for two seconds with his blue eyes into Rostov’s face。 （A soft； mild radiance beamed from them。） Then all at once he raised his eyebrows； struck his left foot sharply against his horse； and galloped on。
The young Emperor could not restrain his desire to be present at the battle； and in spite of the expostulations of his courtiers； at twelve o’clock； escaping from the third column which he had been following； he galloped to the vanguard。 Before he reached the hussars； several adjutants met him with news of the successful issue of the engagement。
The action； which had simply consisted in the capture of a squadron of the French； was magnified into a brilliant victory over the enemy； and so the Tsar and the whole army believed； especially while the smoke still hung over the field of battle； that the French had been defeated； and had been forced to retreat against their will。 A few minutes after the Tsar had galloped on； the division of the Pavlograd hussars received orders to move forward。 In Vishau itself； a little German town； Rostov saw the Tsar once more。 In the market…place of the town where there had been rather a heavy firing before the Tsar’s arrival； lay several dead and wounded soldiers； whom there had not been time to pick up。 The Tsar； surrounded by his suite of officers and courtiers； was mounted on a different horse from the one he had ridden at the review； a chestnut English thoroughbred。 Bending on one side with a graceful gesture； holding a gold field…glass to his eyes； he was looking at a