The emperor then endeavoured to obtain some information concerning his new adversary.  Kutusof was described to him as an old man, the groundwork of whose reputation had been formerly laid by a singular wound.  He had since skilfully profited by circumstances.  The very defeat of Austerlitz, which he had foreseen, added to his renown, which was further increased by his late campaigns against the Turks.  His valour was incontestable, but he was charged with regulating its vehemence according to his private interest; for he calculated every thing.  His genius was slow, vindictive, and, above all, crafty—­the true Tartar character!—­knowing the art of preparing an implacable war with a fawning, supple, and patient policy.

In other respects, he was more an adroit courtier than an able general:  but formidable by his renown, by his address in augmenting it, and in making others concur in this object.  He had contrived to flatter the whole nation, and every individual of it, from the general to the private soldier.

It was added, that there was in his person, in his language, nay, even in his very dress, his superstitious practices and his age, a remnant of Suwarrow,—­the stamp of an ancient Muscovite, an air of nationality, which rendered him dear to the Russians:  at Moscow the joy at his appointment had been carried to intoxication; people embraced one another in the streets, and considered themselves as saved.

When Napoleon had learned these particulars, and given his orders, he awaited the event with that tranquillity of mind peculiar to extraordinary men.  He quietly employed himself in exploring the environs of his head-quarters.  He remarked the progress of agriculture; but at the sight of the Gjatz, which pours its waters into the Wolga, he who had conquered so many rivers, felt anew the first emotions of his glory:  he was heard to boast of being the master of those waves destined to visit Asia,—­as if they were proceeding to announce his approach, and to open for him the way to that quarter of the globe.

[Illustration:  Portrait of Murat, King of Naples]

On the 4th of September, the army, still divided into three columns, set out from Gjatz and its environs.  Murat had gone on a few leagues before.  Ever since the arrival of Kutusof, troops of cossacks had been incessantly hovering about the heads of our columns.  Murat was exasperated at seeing his cavalry forced to deploy against so feeble an obstacle.  We are assured that on that day, from one of those first impulses worthy of the ages of chivalry, he dashed suddenly and alone towards their line, stopped short a few paces from them, and there, sword in hand, made a sign for them to retire, with an air and gesture so commanding, that these barbarians obeyed, and fell back in amazement.

This circumstance, which was related to us immediately, was received without incredulity.  The martial air of that monarch, the brilliancy of his chivalrous dress, his reputation, and the novelty of such an action, caused this momentary ascendancy to appear true, in spite of its improbability; for such was Murat, a theatrical monarch by the splendor of his dress, and truly a king by his extraordinary valour and his inexhaustible activity; bold as the attack, and always armed with that air of superiority, that threatening audacity, which is the most dangerous of offensive weapons.