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NINE DAYS after the abandonment of Moscow, a courier from Kutuzov reached
Petersburg with the official news of the surrender of Moscow. This courier was a
Frenchman, Michaud, who did not know Russian, yet was, “though a foreigner,
Russian in heart and soul,” as he used to say of himself.
The Tsar at once received the messenger in his study in the palace of Kamenny
island. Michaud, who had never seen Moscow before the campaign, and did not know
a word of Russian, yet felt deeply moved when he came before “notre très
gracieux souverain” (as he wrote) with the news of the burning of Moscow,
whose flames illumined his route.
Though the source of M. Michaud's sorrow must indeed have been different from
that to which the grief of Russian people was due, Michaud had such a melancholy
face when he was shown into the Tsar's study that the Tsar asked him at
once:
“Do you bring me sad news, colonel?”
“Very sad, sire, the surrender of Moscow,” answered Michaud, casting his eyes
down with a sigh.
“Can they have surrendered my ancient capital without a battle?” the Tsar
asked quickly, suddenly flushing.
Michaud respectfully gave the message he had been commanded to give from
Kutuzov, that is, that there was no possibility of fighting before Moscow, and
that seeing there was no chance but either to lose the army and Moscow or to
lose Moscow alone, the commander-in-chief had been obliged to choose the
latter.
The Tsar listened without a word, not looking at Michaud.
“Has the enemy entered the city?” he asked.
“Yes, sire, and by now the city is in ashes. I left it all in flames,” said
Michaud resolutely; but glancing at the Tsar, Michaud was horrified at what he
had done. The Tsar was breathing hard and rapidly, his lower lip was twitching,
and his fine blue eyes were for a moment wet with tears.
But that lasted only a moment. The Tsar suddenly frowned, as though vexed
with himself for his own weakness; and raising his head, he addressed Michaud in
a firm voice:
“I see, colonel, from all that is happening to us that Providence requires
great sacrifices of us. I am ready to submit to His will in everything; but tell
me, Michaud, how did you leave the army, seeing my ancient capital thus
abandoned without striking a blow? Did you not perceive discouragement?”
Seeing that his most gracious sovereign had regained his composure, Michaud
too regained his; but to the Tsar's direct question of a matter of fact which
called for a direct answer, he had not yet an answer ready. “Sire, will you
permit me to speak frankly, as a loyal soldier?” he said, to gain time.
“Colonel, I always expect it,” said the Tsar. “Hide nothing from me; I want
to know absolutely how it is.”
“Sire!” said Michaud, with a delicate, scarcely perceptible smile on his
lips, as he had now had time to prepare his answer in the form of a light and
respectful play of words. “Sire! I left the whole army, from the commanders to
the lowest soldier without exception, in extreme, in desperate terror.”
“How so?” the Tsar interrupted, frowning sternly. “My Russians let themselves
be cast down by misfortune?…Never…”
This was just what Michaud was waiting for to get in his phrases.
“Sire,” he said, with a respectful playfulness of expression, “they fear only
that your majesty through goodness of heart may let yourself be persuaded to
make peace. They burn to fight,” said the plenipotentiary of the Russian people,
“and to prove to your majesty by the sacrifice of their lives how devoted they
are…”
“Ah!” said the Tsar, reassured, slapping Michaud on the shoulder, with a
friendly light in his eyes. “You tranquillise me, colonel…”
The Tsar looked down, and for some time he was silent. “Well, go back to the
army,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height and with a genial and
majestic gesture addressing Michaud, “and tell our brave fellows, tell all my
good subjects wherever you go, that when I have not a soldier left, I will put
myself at the head of my dear nobility, of my good peasants, and so use the last
resources of my empire. It offers me still more than my enemies suppose,” said
the Tsar, more and more stirred. “But if it should be written in the decrees of
divine Providence,” he said, and his fine, mild eyes, shining with emotion, were
raised towards heaven, “that my dynasty should cease to reign on the throne of
my ancestors, then after exhausting every means in my power, I would let my
beard grow to here” (the Tsar put his hand halfway down his breast), “and go and
eat potatoes with the meanest of my peasants rather than sign the shame of my
country and my dear people, whose sacrifice I know how to appreciate.” Uttering
these words in a voice of much feeling, the Tsar turned quickly away, as though
wishing to conceal from Michaud the tears that were starting into his eyes, and
he walked to the further end of his study. After standing there some instants,
he strode back to Michaud, and with a vigorous action squeezed his arm below the
elbow. The Tsar's fine, mild face was flushed, and his eyes gleamed with energy
and anger. “Colonel Michaud, do not forget what I say to you here; perhaps one
day we shall recall it with pleasure.…Napoleon or me,” he said, touching his
breast, “we can no longer reign together. I have learned to know him. He will
not deceive me again…” And the Tsar paused, frowning. Hearing these words,
seeing the look of firm determination in the Tsar's eyes, Michaud, though a
foreigner, Russian in heart and soul, felt (as he used to recount later) at that
solemn moment moved to enthusiasm by what he had just heard; and in the
following phrase he sought to give expression to his own feelings and those of
the Russian people, whose representative he considered himself to be.
“Sire!” he said, “your majesty is signing at this moment the glory of the
nation and the salvation of Europe!”
With a motion of his head the Tsar dismissed Michaud.
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