"Oh yes, I'll take care," answered Tolstoi lightly. Then, as a spasm of pain passed across his face, "What a nuisance this hand is! Lucky it is not the right one, though."
"If it had been," said Ivan, "you would have done as Diebitch did at Austerlitz—taken the sword in your left, and fought on."
"I am sorry to see you are wounded," remarked Schubart. "How was it?"
"Oh, it is nothing," returned Tolstoi. "I got the hurt three days ago, in that fight with Pacthod's corps."
"A brilliant affair. We have all heard of it," said the Prussian.
"Ay," answered Tolstoi; "those Frenchmen fought like demons."
"Like heroes, you mean," said Ivan. "Certainly the empire Napoleon has kept over the hearts of his soldiers is no less than a miracle, especially when we know how little he would care if all of them were dead to-morrow, provided he had as good to replace them. It was sixteen thousand men with guns and cavalry against six thousand without either; and yet they would not yield to us. Our guns raked their lines. Still they stood undaunted, resolved to resist to the death. The Czar sent an aide-de-camp with a flag of truce to them. They shot him dead."[1]
"Not very chivalrous that," Schubart interposed.
"No, truly. But how gallantly they fought! They would have kept their places till they were cut to pieces, man by man. And to that it must have come, but the Czar would not have it. He called on us to follow—us of the Chevalier Guard," said Ivan with a look of pride—"and dashed headlong into the midst of them, breaking up and scattering their compact square by the sheer impetus of his charge. It was a
- ↑ The aide-de-camp was Rapatel, a protégé of Moreau, who had attached himself to Alexander out of gratitude for his kindness to the family of his friend and patron.
