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They had just ridden up a hill past a tavern, when a bunch of horsemen appeared, riding towards them from the foot of the hill, at the head of whom, on a black horse, its trappings gleaming in the sun, rode a tall man in a plumed hat, with black, curled, shoulder-length hair, in a red mantle, his long legs thrust forward, as Frenchmen ride. This man galloped to meet Balashov, his plumes flying, his jewels and gold galloons shining in the bright June sun.

Balashov was just two lengths away from the horseman riding to meet him with a theatrically solemn face, in bracelets, plumes, necklaces, and gold, when Ulner, the French colonel, whispered respectfully: “le roi de Naples.”*396 Indeed, it was Murat, who was now called the Neapolitan king. Though it was completely incomprehensible why he was the Neapolitan king, he was called that, and he was fully convinced of it himself, and therefore had a still more solemn and important air than before. He was so sure that he was indeed the Neapolitan king, that when, on the eve of his departure from Naples, while strolling with his wife through the streets of the city, several Italians had cried “Viva il re!” he had turned to his wife with a sad smile and said: “Les malheureux, ils ne savent pas que je les quitte demain!”*397

But though he firmly believed that he was the Neapolitan king and was sorry for the grief of the subjects he was abandoning, lately, after being called back into the service, and especially after meeting Napoleon in Danzig, when his august brother-in-law had said to him: “Je vous ai fait Roi pour régner à ma manière, mais pas à la vôtre”†398 —he had cheerfully taken up his familiar business and, as a well-fed but not yet fat horse, still fit for work, feeling itself in harness, begins to frolic in the shafts, he, having dressed up as gaudily and expensively as possible, cheerful and content, went riding down the roads of Poland, not knowing where or why himself.

Seeing the Russian general, he threw back his head with its curled, shoulder-length hair in a kingly manner and gave the French colonel a questioning glance. The colonel deferentially conveyed to his majesty the meaning of Balashov, whose family name he could not pronounce.

“De Bal-machève!” said the king (overcoming by his resoluteness the difficulty that the colonel was faced with), “charmé de faire votre connaissance, général,”‡399 he added with a gesture of kingly graciousness. As soon as the king began to speak loudly and quickly, all his kingly dignity instantly left him, and, not noticing it himself, he went over to his proper tone of good-natured familiarity. He placed his hand on the withers of Balashov’s horse.

“Eh bien, général, tout est à la guerre, à ce qu’il parait,”§400 he said as if regretting the circumstance, of which he could not judge.

“Sire,” replied Balashov, “l’Empereur mon maître ne désire point la guerre, et comme Votre Majesté le voit,”#401 said Balashov, using Votre Majesté at every turn, with inevitably affected frequency, addressing the person for whom this title was still a novelty.

Murat’s face beamed with stupid satisfaction as he listened to Monsieur de Balachoff. But royauté oblige:**402 he felt it necessary to discuss state affairs with Alexander’s envoy as a king and ally. He dismounted and, taking Balashov by the arm and moving a few steps away from the suite, who waited respectfully, began walking up and down with him, trying to speak significantly. He mentioned that the emperor Napoleon was offended by the demand to withdraw his troops from Prussia, especially now, when the demand had become known to everybody and the dignity of France was offended by it. Balashov said that there was nothing offensive in this demand, because…Murat interrupted him:

“So you don’t consider the emperor Alexander the instigator?” he said unexpectedly with a good-naturedly stupid smile.

Balashov told him why he actually supposed that the initiator of the war was Napoleon.

“Eh, mon cher général,” Murat interrupted