Imperial Guard had borne their full share in the glories and dangers of the war; for their place was near the person of a sovereign of whom it was said with truth that "the only life he ever exposed without reflection was his own." Their ranks were sorely thinned: one gallant youth had fallen by a shot from the same battery as that which killed Moreau, two at Toplitz, others at Leipzig and elsewhere. But their arms were as bright, their equipages as splendid, as when they left the banks of the Neva; and their massy silver cuirasses reflected the sunshine of France from surfaces as stainless as those which flashed upon the parade-ground of St. Petersburg.
Ivan Pojarsky was an ensign now—he had won his colours on the banks of the Elbe—and he wore besides the Order of St. George along with the Moscow medal on the breast of his crimson tunic. He had escaped without a wound; but his friend Tolstoi was looking very pale, and had his left hand in a sling. As the Chevaliers rode together towards Paris on the evening of the 29th of March, their party was joined by some noble young Prussian volunteers, their personal friends. One of these, named Schubart, was vaunting to the Russians the courage and ability of Blucher, and telling them the story of some of his exploits.
"All that is very well," said Tolstoi, with a little irritation. "Far be it from me to deny that Prince Blucher is a brave soldier and a good general. But where, I ask you, would he be now, but for his Russian auxiliaries? You know as well as I that his army contains four Russians for one Prussian. Still," he pursued, "there is all the difference in the world between your fine old hero and that Austrian trimmer and time-server, who, I verily believe, would have us all prisoners in the camp of Napoleon, if he were left to himself."
"I am not any more in love with Prince Schwartzenberg than you are," said the Prussian; while Ivan whispered to Tolstoi, with a warning glance, "Take care."
