War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [270]
“To whomever you order, Your Majesty.”
The sovereign winced with displeasure and, looking around, said:
“But I must give him an answer.”
Kozlovsky, with a resolute air, looked over the ranks and in that look took in Rostov.
“What if it’s me?” thought Rostov.
“Lazarev!” the colonel commanded, frowning, and Lazarev, the first soldier in the rank, briskly stepped forward.
“Where are you going? Stop right there!” voices whispered to Lazarev, who did not know where to go. Lazarev stopped, casting a fearful sidelong glance at the colonel, and his face twitched, as happens with soldiers called out of line.
Napoleon turned his head slightly and held out his small, plump hand behind him, as if wishing to take something. The persons of his suite, guessing that very second what was wanted, began fussing, whispering, handing something on, and the page, the same one Rostov had seen the day before at Boris’s, ran forward and, bending deferentially over the proffered hand, and without making it wait a single second, placed in it the decoration on its red ribbon. Napoleon, not looking, closed two fingers. The decoration was between them. Napoleon went up to Lazarev, who, staring wide-eyed, stubbornly went on looking only at his sovereign, and gave the emperor Alexander a glance, showing thereby that what he was now doing, he was doing for his ally. The small white hand with the decoration touched the soldier Lazarev’s button. It was as if Napoleon knew that, for this soldier to be happy, rewarded, and distinguished from everyone else in the world, it was only necessary that his, Napoleon’s, hand deign to touch the soldier’s breast. Napoleon merely laid the cross on Lazarev’s breast and, lowering his hand, turned to Alexander, as if he knew that the cross must stick to Lazarev’s breast. The cross did stick, because obliging Russian and French hands instantly picked it up and fastened it to the tunic. Lazarev glanced darkly at the little man with white hands who had done something to him, and, motionless, continuing to present arms, again began gazing straight into Alexander’s eyes, as if asking Alexander if he should go on standing there or would now be ordered to take a few steps or perhaps to do something else. But he was not ordered to do anything, and he remained in that motionless state for a rather long time.
The sovereigns got on their horses and left. The Preobrazhensky battalion, breaking ranks, mingled with the French guards and sat down at the tables prepared for them.
Lazarev sat in the place of honor; he was embraced, congratulated, his hands were shaken by Russian and French officers. Crowds of officers and people came merely to look at Lazarev. A droning of Russian and French talk and laughter hung over the tables on the square. Two officers with flushed faces, merry and happy, walked past him.
“What a treat, brother—all on silver,” said one. “Have you seen Lazarev?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow, they say, the Preobrazhensky battalion will be the hosts.”
“No, but what luck for Lazarev! A twelve-hundred-franc pension for life.”
“How’s that for a hat, boys!” cried a Preobrazhensky soldier, putting on a Frenchman’s shaggy hat.
“Charming, suits you perfectly!”
“Did you hear the passwords?” one officer of the guards said to another. “Two days ago they were ‘Napoléon, France, bravoure,’ yesterday ‘Alexandre, Russie, grandeur’ one day our sovereign gives the passwords, the next day Napoleon. Tomorrow our sovereign will send a St. George to the bravest of the French guards. No way out of it! He has to respond in kind.”
Boris, with his comrade Zhilinsky, also came to look at the Preobrazhensky banquet. On his way home, Boris noticed Rostov standing by the corner of a house.
“Rostov! Greetings! We haven’t seen each other,” he said and could not help asking what had happened to him: so strangely dark and upset was Rostov’s face.
“Never mind, never mind,” replied Rostov.
“Will you stop by?”
“Yes.”
Rostov stood at the corner for a long time, looking at