Ivan was in the Kremlin, distributing arms to the workmen whom he found there, when some one cried that the French were fording the Moskva (the Russian general, Miloradovitch, having broken down the bridges). Ivan sprang to the nearest point of observation, and saw some horsemen in fantastic uniforms, and bringing with them a couple of guns, actually crossing the stream. A personage, splendidly attired and surrounded by a brilliant staff, was directing their movements, and apparently preparing to follow them. This, though Ivan knew it not, was Murat, King of Naples, who was leading the French vanguard, thirsting for glory and plunder, and already devouring with covetous eyes the fabulous treasures of the Kremlin.
Ivan returned to his companions. “God has delivered them into our hands,” he said. “We will let them cross the ford, and then—”
What followed may be learned from Murat’s own confession found in an intercepted letter to his wife. “Never in my life,” wrote the King of Naples, “was I in such wild danger.” First a sharp fire of musketry saluted the advancing French; then the workmen and the populace sprang upon them “with maniac fury,” and fought “like demons.” The two pieces of cannon which Murat had with him, and which were loaded with grape-shot, eventually decided the contest, but not until a colonel of engineers and a large number of soldiers had fallen.
After the fray Michael saw Ivan, covered with dust and mortar, leaning against a wall which had just been struck by a shot. “Are you hurt, Barrinka?” he asked.
“No,” said Ivan, shaking the mortar from his clothes; “I am all right. And you too, I hope? We must not throw away our lives, Michael; there is too much still to be done. Come with me to the prison.”
“Anywhere with you, Barrinka. See, though I could not use a gun, I have killed Nyemtzi.” And Michael triumphantly displayed a short sabre dyed with blood.
“Where did you get that?” asked Ivan.
“Took it from one of themselves. That is French blood upon the blade,” said Michael, with an air of intense satisfaction.
The Wertsch palace was directly in their way, and Ivan went in, saying, with a determined air, “I will hear no more excuses from the countess now. Go she must; her hour has come.”
Her hour had come—in a sense other and more solemn than Ivan meant. The waiting-woman Maria met him in the saloon, and told him with many tears that her mistress was dying. At the tidings that the French had actually entered holy Moscow, so terrible was her agitation that she had broken a blood-vessel, and was now beyond the reach of human aid.[28] Ivan despatched a messenger for Pope Yefim—the only priest he knew who had not left the city—while he himself hastened to the side of the dying woman, to whom he thought his presence might be a comfort.