During this recital, Napoleon’s eyes kindled with enthusiasm, and when Eugene had finished, he exclaimed,—
“Then you, Prince, with eighteen thousand men, huddled together in the bottom of a ravine, defeated fifty thousand Russians, posted above your heads, and seconded by every advantage which a town built on a steep acclivity could present! I have been over the ground, and know your difficulties, and appreciate the nature of your triumphs. Prince, the glory of this victory belongs entirely to you.”
The Prince shook his head,—
“Sire, the French troops are brave—courage alone won this field. But leaving that affair, the question is, whether we shall march upon Smolensk by way of Kalouga, Medyn or Mojaisk.”
“That is easily settled,” said Murat, quickly. “The Russians are nothing. Let us pursue the route to Kalouga, and cut our way through them.”
“Tut—tut! King of Naples, you speak rashly!” said Napoleon, quickly. “The course you counsel is the violent impulse of your heart.”
“Entirely unwise!” said Bessieres. “The King of Naples is governed by his all-daring temper.”
“With deference, Sire,” said the stern Davoust, “I would recommend that we proceed to Medwysick. We can reach that point without loss; and permit me to remark, sire, that our present circumstances, every man is of almost indispensable value.”
“But,” interrupted Murat, “it is certain that we shall have to lose men; and it is better to lose them now, in beating the Russians, than to drop them upon a march, without having effected any thing. Marshal Davoust is ever recommending timid, half-way measures.”
A quarrel between Murat and Davoust had occurred some time previous, and it was only by the interposition of the Emperor himself, that bloodshed had been prevented. They were always ready to renew the contest.