AT last he decided to give the army a much-needed rest. Part of the cavalry was already worn out, the artillery and infantry were exhausted, the roads were covered with stragglers who destroyed and wasted everything. It was essential to organize our rear and await the result of the operations undertaken by the corps that had remained on the Dwina. The certainty that the Russian army was going to escape him, and that he would not, for some time, obtain the battle he desired so keenly, cast the Emperor into deep gloom. Eventually [July 29] he resigned himself to the necessity of returning to Witepsk.
As I have said, our cavalry and artillery had already suffered severely. A very large number of horses had died. Many were lagging behind, wasting away, wandering at the rear; others followed their corps, to whom they were but a useless embarrassment.
The King of Naples was better able to appreciate these troubles than anyone, and he told the rest of us about them when he chatted with us. He even ventured to make some remarks to this effect to the Emperor, but His Majesty did not care for reflections that ran counter to his projects, and lent a deaf ear. He changed the subject; and the King of Naples, who above all wished to please him—and who flattered his own vanity at the same time, by so doing—kept to himself the wise reflections which he had voiced to us alone. He soon forgot them entirely. Always at the forefront of the skirmishers, and eager to thrust his ostrich-plumes and fantastic uniform beneath the very noses of the Cossacks, he succeeded in ruining the cavalry, ended by causing the loss of the army, and brought France and the Emperor to the brink of an abyss.
One day, however, General Belliard, chief-of-staff to the King of Naples, observed in his presence to the Emperor, who was questioning him:
“Your Majesty must be told the truth. The cavalry is rapidly disappearing; the marches are too long and exhausting, and when a charge is ordered you can see willing fellows who are forced to stay behind because their horses can’t be put to the gallop.”
The Emperor paid no attention to these prudent observations. He wanted to reach his prey; and in his view it was evidently worth paying any price to attain that object, for he sacrificed everything to gain it.
While these events befell with the Grand Army, the King of Westphalia was detached for the support of the Prince of Eckmühl’s corps. Jerome had let his troops pillage the Duchy of Warsaw—of which he flattered himself he was the ruler—and had driven that loyal country into discontent. Like a good many other people, he imagined that Poland had been awarded to him—this Poland which the Emperor wished to revive and make into a buffer state. Accordingly, the King of Westphalia thought it beneath his dignity to serve under the victor of Auerstädt and Eckmühl; so he left the army [July 16] and returned to Cassel with his Guard.
Such was the support given to the Emperor in sore straits by the brothers whom he had made kings. According to the Emperor, the King was the cause of the Prince of Eckmühl’s failure to carry out his operations successfully, for he enabled Bagration to escape, and thus brought about the initial failure of the campaign.
The Emperor had left the Prince of Eckmühl only a portion of his corps. As soon as the Emperor understood the Russian movements, and saw that Bagration’s corps had been separated from the main army, he threw the Prince against Bagration’s army corps with the few troops left to him (a division and a half), but at the same time informed him that he was putting the King of Westphalia and his corps at his disposal.
The Prince, realizing the importance of the operation the Emperor had entrusted to him, pressed forward, knowing that Bagration had long and difficult defiles to traverse between extensive marshes; and he resolved to forestall the Russian at the end of these defiles, even if only with the head of his column. He accordingly informed the King of his intended movement. However, not only did the King give a cold reception to the officer who handed him the orders, but he even permitted himself to pass unsuitable comments about them, and, as I have said, took himself off with his Guard.
As he had planned, the Prince fell on the convoys and parks that preceded Bagration’s march, captured a considerable part of them, took some prisoners, and continued his movement without encumbering himself with his captures, so as to be in position before the Russians could debouch.
Not being in sufficient force, after the King’s departure, to give battle in open country, he took up his position before Mohilew [July 20], towards which town Bagration was heading; for the King of Westphalia’s disobedience had saved him by facilitating his change of route.
Knowing that he had only to deal with the weak corps hurriedly mustered by the Prince, and that no one was pressing him, Bagration had the insolence to send an aide-de-camp to the Prince of Eckmühl to say that for some days he had been deceived by the Prince’s activity, but that now he knew there was only the head of a column to oppose him; and to avoid a useless engagement he informed him that he intended to sleep the following night in Mohilew. Instead of replying to this boastful impertinence, the Prince strengthened his position as best he could. At the outset of the engagement success was evenly divided; but, though attacked with vigour, the Prince defended himself bravely [Salta-Nowka, July 23], eventually put four or five thousand of Bagration’s men out of action, and forced him to retire and change his direction during the night.
When it is considered what an effect on subsequent events the destruction of Bagration’s corps might have had, and the result that might have been obtained at the outset of the campaign by this first manœuvre of the Emperor and the masterly strategy of the Prince, it is impossible not to feel pity at the sight of that great captain betrayed by his own relations, before being betrayed in the end by Fortune.
On his return to Witepsk [July 29], the Emperor’s first care was for provisions and hospitals. I was given the duty of visiting them, distributing money to the wounded, consoling and encouraging them. Never was there a situation more deplorable, or a spectacle more heart-rending for those who could think, and who had not been dazzled by the false glamour of Glory and ambition.
With the exception of the chiefs, the indifference of the administrative officers was complete. The innumerable waggons, the enormous quantity of supplies of all sorts that had been collected at such expense during the course of two years, had vanished through theft and loss, or through lack of means to bring them up. They were scattered along the roads. The rapidity of the forced marches, the shortage of harness and spare parts, the dearth of provisions, the want of care, all had helped to kill the horses. This campaign at express speed from the Niemen to Wilna, and from Wilna to Witepsk, had, without any real result, already cost the army two lost battles and deprived it of absolutely essential provisions and supplies.
To ensure that no indiscreet word should be uttered, the Emperor had consulted no one. Consequently our waggons and all our transport, built for metalled roads and to accomplish ordinary distances, were in no way suitable for the roads of the country we had to traverse. The first sand we came across overwhelmed the horses; for the loads, instead of being cut down in proportion to the weight of the vehicle and the distance to be covered, had been increased in the notion that the daily consumption would sufficiently lessen them. But in working out this scheme of daily consumption the Emperor had not taken into account the distance that would have to be covered before the point was reached when this consumption would begin.
The men, lacking everything to supply their own needs, were little inclined to pay any heed to their horses, and watched them perish without regrets, for their death meant the breakdown of the service on which the men were employed, and thus the end to their personal privations. There you have the secret and cause of our earlier disasters and of our final reverse.
Disorder reigned everywhere; in the town, as in the country around, everyone was in want. The Guard was no better provisioned than the other corps, and thence arose indiscipline and all its attendant evils. The Emperor was angry, and took the corps commanders and administrators to task with something more than severity; but this did no good in the face of the continued failure to bring up rations.
From a spirit of inexplicable and unpardonable meanness the provisioning of the ambulances had been inadequate. Even the personnel was too scanty. Never had carelessness been carried to greater extremes by the underlings of the administration: never had the courage of unfortunate men been more abused. The army surgeons and the administrative chiefs, as praiseworthy for their zeal as for their talents, were in despair at the state in which they found the hospitals. In vain did they endeavour to make up, by their care and attention, for whatever was lacking. We had got only as far as Witepsk, we had not fought a battle, and there was not even any lint!
The Emperor was extremely preoccupied and, though such behaviour was by no means usual with him, was often in such surly humour that he was careless in the expressions he used towards those who displeased him. He was greatly struck by the departure of the townsfolk and the flight of the country people. This method of retreat opened his eyes, maybe, to the possible consequences of this war, and to the distance it might take him from France; but the thousand-and-one things that ought to have opened his eyes to his position vanished before the slightest incident which might revive his hopes. A captured Russian officer brought to headquarters raised his spirits. He assured the Emperor that battle was certain to be given before Witepsk, that it had only been put off because a letter had been received on the twenty-seventh from Prince Bagration, containing news that he would not be able to join the army until they reached Smolensk. The Emperor flattered himself that as soon as the Russian army had joined up with Bagration it would make an attack. Full of hope, he immediately recovered his good temper.
The King of Naples, who, like the Emperor, had constantly been nibbling at the Russians, while doing ten or twelve leagues a day, and whose hopes for a success on the morrow had hindered him from calculating his daily losses, realized his weakness as soon as he was in position. He saw with apprehension the decreasing strength of his regiments, most of which were reduced to less than half their numbers. Forage and stores of all sorts were lacking, for his forces were always in close order and on the alert. Arrangements had not been made for rationing the men during the first few days, and the Cossacks were already hindering them from bringing up stores. The horses were not shod, the harness was in a deplorable state. The forges, like all the rest of the material, had been left in the rear. The greater number of them, indeed, had been abandoned and lost. There were no nails, no smiths—and no supplies of iron suitable for making nails.
For some days the men were turned to grinding corn, and the ovens built by the Emperor’s orders were put into service. He strove to infuse everyone with his own activity, but everything proceeded listlessly. No amount of reasoning, not even the experiences he had met with since the Niemen, nothing could enlighten him as to the fatality looming ahead. If the Emperor occasionally saw the situation and the consequences of this war in their true light, if for a moment he spoke of it dispassionately, the next instant his conversation took an entirely different turn. He was obsessed once more by his old illusions and returned to his gigantic projects. The most insignificant skirmish, the arrival of reinforcements, the appearance of some ammunition waggons, a report from the King of Naples, a few cries of “Vive I’Empereur!” at a parade, and above all the letters from Wilna,17 were enough to turn his head once more.
The Prince of Neuchâtel was snapped at all day long, and overwhelmed with distasteful business in return for his freedom of speech, his inconceivable activity, his unflagging devotion. As a matter of fact, a number of things went wrong: the staff foresaw nothing. But on the other hand, as the Emperor wanted to do everything himself and give every order, no one, not even the chief-of-staff, dared to assume the most trifling responsibility. The administration, deprived, as we have seen, of the means of execution and transport, was quite unable to produce the results demanded by the Emperor, or to carry out orders which he gave without troubling himself as to how they should be executed.
The Prince of Neuchâtel was not any more discouraged than myself or the rest of us. We made it a point to seize every opportunity of enlightening His Majesty about the real state of affairs—to allay that spirit of excitement which tended to drive us forward, trusting in luck alone. Never was the truth so dinned into the ear of a sovereign—though, alas, to no effect. But it is only fair to say that, if the Emperor was far from welcoming the truth because it ran counter to his wishes, he did not reject it violently. At bottom he was not even unduly aggravated with those who had the courage to tell it, perhaps because he attached no value to it.
Those who had access to the Emperor were worried as much over the state of irritation engendered in him by the annoyances of the campaign as they were by the intoxication arising from his illusions—which last were encouraged by the very small number of persons who still shared them. The detractors of this great epoch may say what they like; never was sovereign surrounded by more capable men, men who were honest before all else and not mere courtiers, however strong the admiration and attachment which they professed for the Great Man. In spite of the varying shades of character and habits of each of them, wherever the Emperor cared to probe he was sure to find, if he wanted it, a sterling and even disagreeable truth rather than mere flattery.18 Whether because there had been a surfeit of Glory, or because common sense had taught us to distrust its glamour, the fact remains that no one was intoxicated with it. We remained moderate, and good Frenchmen above all.
It must be credited to the honour of the Emperor that his principles, his impartiality, the staunchness of his confidence which kept the spirit of intrigue at arm’s length, had all contributed to the birth and growth of these noble sentiments. The master’s well-known dislike of any change [among his entourage] gave everyone a sense of security which proved greatly to the advantage of truth. His strength of will had united all opinions and checked all private ambitions. France and the Emperor were blended in a glory which had become common to both. He had subjugated all minds and, without their knowing it, had bent the wills of all men to co-operate in the accomplishment of his own.
Who has not been carried away by the ascendancy of that superior genius, by the pre-eminently sovereign qualities, by his good-nature which was that of a private man in his own intimate circle? Who has not admired in him the great captain, the legislator, the restorer of social order—the man, in short, to whom the country owed its internal prosperity and the end of civil war? The Revolution checked; religion reestablished; our laws, our administration, our industry increased a hundredfold; the prosperous state of our finances—was not all this a constant proof to us of our debt to the Emperor, and of what we could still hope for from him? If some persons, however, perceived the dangers of a collapse, when such continual success and glory were likely to delude the good sense of the majority, their foresight only applied to the particular situation in which they found themselves.
The Emperor had changed the national character. The French had become serious; their bearing was grave; the great questions of the day preoccupied all minds; petty interests were subordinated; the general sentiment was, one may say, patriotic; one would have blushed to show any other. The men who surrounded the Emperor prided themselves on not flattering him. Some even paraded the need of telling him the truth at the risk of displeasing him. It was the spirit of the time.
This reflection cannot have escaped those who had eyes. Opposition, as the Emperor noticed, did not cause the zeal or devotion of anyone to relax. He paid little attention to it and attributed it in general to narrow views, and to the fact that few people were capable of grasping his great projects in their entirety. It is certain that this opposition, if I may judge from my own case, arose solely from the wish to protect the interests of the Emperor’s peculiar Glory. What personal sentiment or interest could have held sway amid such a unanimous concert of devotion? Who could then foresee what has since happened?
I can assert that no one was moved except by the interests of France and the need of preserving the prodigies of the Emperor’s Glory. Only this twofold interest could be opposed to the inordinate ambitions of that Glory, all the dangers of which a secret instinct seemed now to be revealing. This enthusiasm of the Emperor—this ambition that induced him to run such hazards so far from France—certainly grew more noticeable to everyone as soon as the trend of events began to breed doubt of its success. Moreover, everyone condemned it in him, privately. But Peace, always rejected by England and forever represented by the Emperor as the motive of all his enterprises, justified him in the eyes of a nation over which, for some time to come, power and imagination would still hold more influence, and even more dominion, than reason and experience.
Only ten days had elapsed after our arrival at Witepsk before it became necessary to send ten or twelve leagues for fodder. The inhabitants who had not fled were everywhere in arms; consequently it was impossible to find any means of transport. Horses already in need of rest were further enfeebled by having to go in search of food, and were exposed, together with the men, to the danger of being caught by the Cossacks or slaughtered by the peasants, as frequently happened.
Having no further hopes that the enemy might attack him, as he had made himself believe when he knew that Prince Bagration had joined up with the main army [August 4], and on the other hand being unable to give his own army the rest it needed so long as the enemy was in force so close at hand, the Emperor decided on the tenth to follow him; he announced his intention of moving his right across the Dnieper at Rossasna, while the Russians, with the same object in view, would be carrying out the same movement in order to attack us on the right bank of that river.19 The Emperor left Witepsk on the twelfth at eleven o’clock in the evening. On the morning of the thirteenth he was at Rossasna on the left bank of the Dnieper; the Guard arrived during the day. A very weak garrison had been left at Witepsk with the sick and wounded.
The Emperor planned to fight a big battle and drive back the enemy so that he should be able to rest his army and organize the country for winter-quarters, while his corps on the Dwina should act with the same end in view. He was still fixed in his original purpose. He desired to reorganize everything so as to be in a position to march on the capitals when the spring campaign opened, if the measures he hoped to take—and the consequent embarrassment of the Russian government —did not induce the Petersburg cabinet to make peace during the winter, or even before. The Emperor counted on this outcome more eagerly than ever; for he was already tired of the war and, as he said, would not raise difficulties in the matter of peace conditions.
The next morning [August 14] he was in the saddle at daybreak. When night fell the Emperor returned to the Guard’s bivouac near Liadouï. The information obtained from some wounded prisoners put an end to all the Emperor’s uncertainties and confirmed his knowledge of a movement by Barclay de Tolly on the right bank, which he had been led to suspect since midday by the report of a reconnaissance. All corps were ordered to press their march on Smolensk. The Emperor set out with the Guard before daybreak, hoping to reach the place in advance of the Russian army, in front of which we had unknowingly defiled in going to Rossasna by way of Babinowitschi.
Very early in the morning of the fifteenth he galloped off to the advance-guard, at the gates of Smolensk. Having invested the town closely, he quickly reconnoitred the environs. The enemy appeared in force, our troops came up, and the day was passed in bombardments and minor attacks to straighten his positions and get as near the town as possible.
On the morrow the investment was made yet closer; a cemetery and several houses which commanded the plateau on which the town is built were destroyed. That evening the Emperor brought some guns into position to bombard the bridge, which could be seen plainly enough to observe troops defiling across it, some entering the town, others marching out.
A little later it was seen that these were Barclay’s last corps arriving, and that part of the garrison had been relieved by them. What was the reason for this change? Did it foreshadow yet another retreat? The Emperor was puzzled, and at once became annoyed at the idea of having to march on and move yet further from his base, so as to come up with this army which he could have forced into giving battle had he attacked forty-eight hours earlier.
He asked me what I thought of these movements of troops. He tried to make me say that the Russians would hold and fight a battle, which was what he wanted. He was like a man in need of consolation. I thought, on the contrary, that since the Russians no longer held the initiative and were therefore unable to choose their ground, they would prefer to retire; and I said so very plainly.
“If that is so,” answered the Emperor, in the tones of a man who had suddenly reached a decision, “by abandoning Smolensk, which is one of their Holy Cities, the Russian generals are dishonouring their arms in the eyes of their own people. That will put me in a strong position. We will drive them a little farther back, for our own comfort. I will dig myself in. We will rest the troops; the country will shape up around this pivot—and we’ll see how Alexander likes that. I shall turn my attention to the corps on the Dwina, which are doing nothing; my army will be more formidable and my position more menacing to the Russians than as if I had won two battles. I will establish my headquarters at Witepsk. I will raise Poland in arms, and later on I will choose, if necessary, between Moscow and Petersburg.”
Delighted to find the Emperor embued with such good and sound ideas, I applauded his resolution; he seemed to me sublime, great, far-seeing, as in the day of his most splendid victory. I told him that this plan would really lead to peace, for it would strengthen him step by step as he advanced, and would deter him from running too great risks. The Russian plan of campaign proved that they wished to draw him into the interior of the country, lead him further from his base, and shut him up amid the ice. It was imperative not to play their game, I added.
His Majesty seemed to approve my reflections highly, and to have made up his mind at last. I hastened to report my conversation to the Prince of Neuchâtel, so that he should do his utmost to hold the Emperor to his wise resolutions; but the Prince seemed to be doubtful whether they would survive the taking of Smolensk. Alas, how right he was! In my joy at what I heard, I too had let illusions run away with me.
On the seventeenth the Russians were compelled to evacuate all their positions outside the walls. The Emperor brought up the siege batteries and placed thirty pieces to break down the bridge, which was plainly visible now that we were close to the town. This battery so harassed the enemy that his columns defiled across it at the double. They were clearly in full retreat. Wishing to launch an assault, the Emperor, some engineer officers, and some of the staff decided to reconnoitre the enceinte, but they had no scaling ladder. Finally, the reports which he received made the Emperor decide to abandon that project. Towards evening the enemy’s retreating movements were unmistakable. The town had been on fire since morning, and the flames, fed by the enemy themselves, showed no sign of abating.
During the night the conflagration grew worse. It was a fearful sight—the cruel prelude to what we were to behold at Moscow. Unable to sleep, I walked about (it was two o’clock in the morning), reflecting mournfully on the consequences that must ensue from this war if the Emperor did not hold to the good intentions he had shown on the previous day. These scenes of horror and devastation inspired in me, I believe, a presentiment of those of which I was later to be the unhappy witness. My conversation with the Emperor continually came to my mind, and consoled me a little; but the Prince of Neuchâtel’s observations were no less insistent, and past experience inclined me all too strongly to share his opinion and his apprehensions.
The night was cold. I drew near to a fire burning before the Emperor’s tent, on the side facing the town, and was growing drowsy as I sat before it, when His Majesty came up with the Prince of Neuchâtel and the Duke of Istria. They gazed at the flaming town. It lit up the whole horizon, already studded with the sparkle of our own bivouac fires.
“An eruption of Vesuvius!” shouted the Emperor, clapping me on the shoulder and waking me from my stupor. “Isn’t that a fine sight, Monsieur le Grand Ecuyer?”
“Horrible, Sire!”
“Bah!” he said. “Gentlemen, remember the words of a Roman Emperor: ‘A dead enemy always smells sweet!”’
We were all taken aback. For my own part, I at once recalled what the Prince of Neuchâtel had said; and this and the Emperor’s remark long haunted my inmost thoughts. I looked at the Prince—and we exchanged glances, as men who understand each other without speaking....
At four o‘clock in the morning [August 18] some maurauders, who had been on the watch, made their way into the town through old gaps that the enemy had not so much as repaired; and at five o’clock the Emperor learned that the place was evacuated. He gave orders that the troops should not enter except in formation; but the men had already got in by several loopholes which they had opened and scaled. The Emperor mounted his horse, reconnoitred the enceinte on the east, and entered the town by an old breach in the wall. He went all round the city at once, and eventually stationed himself at the bridge, where he spent the day hastening its repair.
The buildings in the public square and the finest houses in the town had been but little damaged. The arsenal was intact, though not much of anything was left in it. Every quarter of the town had suffered; the inhabitants had fled with the army, the only people left being some old folk of the lowest classes, a priest and an artisan. They told us all they knew about what had happened in the town, but could give no information concerning the army, not even what its losses had been. The Emperor seemed well satisfied, even triumphant.
“Before a month is out,” he said, “we shall be in Moscow; in six weeks we shall have peace.”
Marshal Ney had made all preparations for crossing the Dnieper a league from the town, in order to follow up the Russians, whose rear-guard only was in sight; pursuing the enemy [August 19], he found them in position at Valutina. General Borrelli, who was attached to the staff of the King of Naples, came to inform the Emperor of this.
He refused to believe that they would offer any resistance, or that anyhow there was more than a rear-guard in position; but successive reports convinced him that it was a more considerable corps. He proceeded thither himself and immediately sent several officers to the Duke of Abrantès and even the Prince of Neuchâtel, with orders to advance and engage the Russians, without letting a single man escape. In the meantime Marshal Ney had attacked and overthrown the enemy with his usual boldness; but a grenadier division, sent to reinforce the rear-guard, held the position despite a fresh attack by Gudin’s division. This general, one of the most distinguished in the army, was mortally wounded at the start of the action, and lived but a short while. He died esteemed by the whole army and mourned by all who knew him. This occurrence did not hinder the troops from taking the first position. But the enemy were successively reinforced, and the Duke of Abrantès, who was to have outflanked him and turned his left, did not come up in time;20 so the Russians held the crest of their position until nightfall. When the Emperor reached a point which gave him a view over the whole countryside, he again sent orders to the Duke of Abrantès to act with vigour.
“Barclay is mad,” he said. “That rear-guard is ours, even if Junot only marches here at ease.”
The Emperor learned of the end of the affair before he reached Valutina, and returned to Smolensk highly incensed with the Duke of Abrantès, who had not acted with the vigour he had shown on previous occasions. The Prince of Neuchâtel and the Dukes of Istria and Elchingen reproached him for not having marched up fast enough; for his part, the Duke of Abrantès, whose corps was composed of foreign troops, contended that, since he was obliged to march in close order so as to run no risks, his movement had been delayed by obstacles which forced him to bear to the right.
From what the Prince of Neuchâtel and the King of Naples said, no such obstacles existed. I remember the different reports that were made to the Emperor. At the sound of gunfire the King of Naples went in person to the Duke of Abrantès, whose corps was in front of his own. Seeing how useful, and indeed how glorious a diversion he could make, the King pressed him to hasten his movements.
“You are annoyed at not being a marshal,” he said. “Here is a fine chance! Take it! You are sure of winning your baton.”
While waiting for his cavalry to come up, the King placed himself at the head of the Württembergers who formed the Duke’s advance-guard, with the object of beginning and pressing on the advance, at the same time making the Duke promise to support him. When the King put this cavalry to the charge, they would have distinguished themselves and driven back the Russians, but the Duke of Abrantès’s corps did not follow up, and the King was obliged to slacken his movement for fear of being cut off; he had to wait for his own troops, who, still at some distance, were moving up at the trot. The Emperor’s anger can readily be imagined, when he received several reports of what had taken place.
“Junot has let the Russians escape,” he said bitterly. “He is losing the campaign for me.”
At that instant he followed up this reproach with the severest strictures and threats; but as usual the memory of good services in the past outweighed the faults of the moment, and his discontent had no sequel.
The Emperor busied himself with making Smolensk what he called his pivot—a safe stronghold for his communications, in the event of his being reluctantly forced to push on further. He worked night and day in attending to all the administrative details, notably for provisions and the requirements of the hospitals.
He had ordered several reconnaissances of the fortress and the environs. General Chasseloup [of the engineers] having come to him with an account of what had been done, the Emperor remarked jokingly, “Wouldn’t you like to make another Alexandria of the place and eat up another fifty millions of money? Russia is not worth that.”
General Chasseloup was proposing nothing of the sort; he only wanted to erect some outworks in order to form a point of defence on the Dnieper. The next day [August 20] the Emperor stopped all the work in hand, appearing to have no wish to go beyond Smolensk.
This retreat of the Russians, without any possibility of saying where they would halt, the increasing certainty that they themselves had set fire to Smolensk, and this war of mutual destruction with no result beyond the gaining of ground,—all these circumstances gave food for serious thought to the Emperor, and confirmed his desire to go no further and to do his best to bring about negotiations. The following details can leave no doubt of his intentions, which he openly explained to the Princes of Neuchâtel and Eckmühl.
After his arrival at Smolensk the Emperor enquired whether there was any slightly wounded officer or any man of some standing in the place. The only person they could find was a Russian officer, who had come, I believe, with a flag of truce, and for some reason or another had been detained. The Emperor interviewed him and, after a few insignificant questions, asked him if there was going to be a battle. He added that honour required the Russians not to yield their country without giving battle—without even once measuring strength with us. Thereafter it would be easy to make peace, as between two champions reconciled after a duel. The war, he said, was only a matter of politics. He wished for nothing better than that the Tsar Alexander should feel as little resentment as he did.
The Emperor added later that he was going to send this officer back to his own army, on condition that he would repeat to the Tsar what he was going to tell him: namely, that he, the Emperor Napoleon, wished for peace; that he had wanted nothing better than to reach an understanding before war had broken out.
The officer promised to convey these messages, but at the same time observed that he did not think peace possible so long as the French were on Russian soil.