§2
But allow me to take the place of my old nurse and to continue her story.
When my father had finished his duties as a fireman, he met a squadron of Italian cavalry near the Monastery of the Passion. He went up to the officer in command, spoke to him in Italian, and explained the plight of his family. When the Italian heard his native language—la sua dolce favella—he promised to speak to the Duc de Trévise,[[6]] and to post a sentinel at once, in order to prevent a repetition of the wild scenes which had taken place in my uncle’s garden. He gave orders to this effect to an officer, and sent him off with my father. When he heard that none of the party had eaten any food for two days, the officer took us all off to a grocer’s shop; it had been wrecked and the floor was covered with choice tea and coffee, and heaps of dates, raisins, and almonds; our servants filled their pockets, and of dessert at least we had abundance. The sentinel proved to be of no little service: again and again, bands of soldiers were inclined to give trouble to the wretched party of women and servants, camping in a corner of the square; but an order from our protector made them pass on at once.
[6]. Mortier (1768-1835), one of Napoleon’s marshals, bore this title.
Mortier, who remembered having met my father in Paris, reported the facts to Napoleon, and Napoleon ordered him to be presented the next day. And so my father, a great stickler for propriety and the rules of etiquette, presented himself, at the Emperor’s summons, in the throne-room of the Kremlin, wearing an old blue shooting-jacket with brass buttons, no wig, boots which had not been cleaned for several days, grimy linen, and a beard of two days’ growth.
Their conversation—how often I heard it repeated!—is reproduced accurately enough in the French history of Baron Fain and the Russian history of Danilevski.
Napoleon began with those customary phrases, abrupt remarks, and laconic aphorisms to which it was the custom for thirty-five years to attribute some profound significance, until it was discovered that they generally meant very little. He then abused Rostopchín for the fires, and said it was mere vandalism; he declared, as always, that he loved peace above all things and that he was fighting England, not Russia; he claimed credit for having placed a guard over the Foundling Hospital and the Uspenski Cathedral; and he complained of the Emperor Alexander. “My desire for peace is kept from His Majesty by the people round him,” he said.
My father remarked that it was rather the business of the conqueror to make proposals of peace.
“I have done my best. I have sent messages to Kutúzov,[[7]] but he will hear of no discussions whatever and does not acquaint his master with my proposals. I am not to blame—if they want war they shall have it!”
[7]. The Russian commander-in-chief.
When this play-acting was done, my father asked for a safe-conduct to leave Moscow.
“I have ordered that no passes be given. Why do you want to go? What are you afraid of? I have ordered the markets to be opened.”
Apparently the Emperor did not realise that, though open markets are a convenience, so is a shut house, and that to live in the open street among French soldiers was not an attractive prospect for a Russian gentleman and his family.
When my father pointed this out, Napoleon thought for a little and then asked abruptly:
“Will you undertake to hand to the Tsar a letter from me? On that condition, I will order a pass to be made out for you and all your family.”
“I would accept Your Majesty’s proposal,” said my father, “but it is difficult for me to guarantee success.”
“Will you give me your word of honour, that you will use all possible means to deliver my letter with your own hands?”
“I pledge you my honour, Sir.”
“That is enough. I shall send for you. Is there anything you need?”
“Nothing, except a roof to shelter my family till we leave.”
“The Duc de Trévise will do what he can.” Mortier did in fact provide a room in the Governor’s palace, and ordered that we should be supplied with provisions; and his maître d’hôtel sent us wine as well. After several days Mortier summoned my father at four in the morning, and sent him off to the Kremlin.
By this time the conflagration had spread to a frightful extent; the atmosphere, heated red-hot and darkened by smoke, was intolerable. Napoleon was dressed already and walking about the room, angry and uneasy; he was beginning to realise that his withered laurels would soon be frozen, and that a jest would not serve, as it had in Egypt, to get him out of this embarrassment. His plan of campaign was ill-conceived, and all except Napoleon knew it—Ney, Narbonne, Berthier, and even officers of no mark or position; to all criticisms his reply was the magic word “Moscow”; and, when he reached Moscow, he too discovered the truth.
When my father entered the room, Napoleon took a sealed letter from a table, gave it to him, and said by way of dismissal, “I rely upon your word of honour.” The address on the envelope ran thus: À mon frère l’empereur Alexandre.
The safe-conduct given to my father is preserved to this day; it is signed by the Duc de Trévise and counter-signed below by Lesseps, chief of police at Moscow. Some strangers, hearing of our good fortune, begged my father to take them with him, under the pretext that they were servants or relations; and they joined our party. An open carriage was provided for my mother and nurse, and for my wounded uncle; the rest walked. A party of cavalry escorted us; when the rear of the Russian Army came in sight, they wished us good fortune and galloped back again to Moscow. The strange party of refugees was surrounded a moment later by Cossacks, who took us to head-quarters. The generals in command were Wintzengerode and Ilovaiski.
When the former was told of the letter, he told my father that he would send him at once, with two dragoons, to see the Tsar at Petersburg.
“What is to become of your party?” asked the Cossack general, Ilovaiski; “They can’t possibly stay here, within rifle-shot of the troops; there may be some hot fighting any day.” My father asked that we might be sent, if possible, to his Yaroslavl estate; and he added that he was absolutely penniless at the time.
“That does not matter: we can settle accounts later,” said the General; “and don’t be uneasy: I give you my promise that they shall be sent.”
While my father was sent off to Petersburg on a courier’s cart, Ilovaiski procured an old rattle-trap of a carriage for us, and sent us and a party of French prisoners to the next town, under an escort of Cossacks; he provided us with money for posting as far as Yaroslavl, and, in general, did all that he could for us in a time of war and confusion.
This was my first long journey in Russia; my second was not attended by either French cavalry or Ural Cossacks or prisoners of war; the whole party consisted of myself and a drunk police-officer sitting beside me in the carriage.