战争与和平(上)-第269节

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optchin　was　not　a　new　one。　Ever　since　the　world　has　existed　and　men　have　killed　one　another；　a　man　has　never　committed　such　a　crime　against　his　fellow　without　consoling　himself　with　the　same　idea。　That　idea　is　le　bien　publique；　the　supposed　public　good　of　others。
To　a　man　not　swayed　by　passion　this　good　never　seems　certain；　but　a　man　who　has　committed　such　a　crime　always　knows　positively　where　that　public　good　lies。　And　Rastoptchin　now　knew　this。
Far　from　reproaching　himself　in　his　meditations　on　the　act　he　had　just　committed；　he　found　grounds　for　self…complacency　in　having　so　successfully　made　use　of　an　occasion　so　à　propos　for　executing　a　criminal；　and　at　the　same　time　satisfying　the　crowd。　“Vereshtchagin　had　been　tried　and　condemned　to　the　death　penalty；”　Rastoptchin　reflected　（though　Vereshtchagin　had　only　been　condemned　by　the　senate　to　hard　labour）。　“He　was　a　spy　and　a　traitor；　I　could　not　let　him　go　unpunished；　and　so　I　hit　two　birds　with　one　stone。　I　appeased　the　mob　by　giving　them　a　victim；　and　I　punished　a　miscreant。”
Reaching　his　house　in　the　suburbs；　the　count　completely　regained　his　composure　in　arranging　his　domestic　affairs。
Within　half　an　hour　the　count　was　driving　with　rapid　horses　across　the　Sokolniky　plain；　thinking　no　more　now　of　the　past；　but　absorbed　in　thought　and　plans　for　what　was　to　come。　He　was　approaching　now　the　Yauzsky　bridge；　where　he　had　been　told　that　Kutuzov　was。　In　his　own　mind　he　was　preparing　the　biting　and　angry　speeches　he　would　make；　upbraiding　Kutuzov　for　his　deception。　He　would　make　that　old　court　fox　feel　that　the　responsibility　for　all　the　disasters　bound　to　follow　the　abandonment　of　Moscow；　and　the　ruin　of　Russia　（as　Rastoptchin　considered　it）；　lay　upon　his　old；　doting　head。　Going　over　in　anticipation　what　he　would　say　to　him；　Rastoptchin　wrathfully　turned　from　side　to　side　in　the　carriage；　and　angrily　looked　about　him。
The　Sokolniky　plain　was　deserted。　Only　at　one　end　of　it；　by　the　alms…house　and　lunatic　asylum；　there　were　groups　of　people　in　white　garments；　and　similar　persons　were　wandering　about　the　plain；　shouting　and　gesticulating。
One　of　them　was　running　right　across　in　front　of　Count　Rastoptchin’s　carriage。　And　Count　Rastoptchin　himself　and　his　coachman；　and　the　dragoons；　all　gazed　with　a　vague　feeling　of　horror　and　curiosity　at　these　released　lunatics；　and　especially　at　the　one　who　was　running　towards　them。
Tottering　on　his　long；　thin　legs　in　his　fluttering　dressing…gown；　this　madman　ran　at　headlong　speed；　with　his　eyes　fixed　on　Rastoptchin；　shouting　something　to　him　in　a　husky　voice；　and　making　signs　to　him　to　stop。　The　gloomy　and　triumphant　face　of　the　madman　was　thin　and　yellow；　with　irregular　tufts　of　beard　growing　on　it。　The　black；　agate…like　pupils　of　his　eyes　moved　restlessly；　showing　the　saffron…yellow　whites　above。　“Stay！　stop；　I　tell　you！”　he　shouted　shrilly；　and　again　breathlessly　fell　to　shouting　something　with　emphatic　gestures　and　intonations。
He　reached　the　carriage　and　ran　alongside　it。
“Three　times　they　slew　me；　three　times　I　rose　again　from　the　dead。　They　stoned　me；　they　crucified　me　…　I　shall　rise　again　…　I　shall　rise　again　…　I　shall　rise　again。　My　body　they　tore　to　pieces。　The　kingdom　of　heaven　will　be　overthrown　…　Three　times　I　will　overthrow　it；　and　three　times　I　will　set　it　up　again；”　he　screamed；　his　voice　growing　shriller　and　shriller。　Count　Rastoptchin　suddenly　turned　white；　as　he　had　turned　white　when　the　crowd　fell　upon　Vereshtchagin。　He　turned　away。　“G　…　go　on；　faster！”　he　cried　in　a　trembling　voice　to　his　coachman。
The　carriage　dashed　on　at　the　horses’　topmost　speed。　But　for　a　long　while　yet　Count　Rastoptchin　heard　behind　him　the　frantic；　desperate　scream　getting　further　away；　while　before　his　eyes　he　saw　nothing　but　the　wondering；　frightened；　bleeding　face　of　the　traitor　in　the　fur…lined　coat。　Fresh　as　that　image　was；　Rastoptchin　felt　now　that　it　was　deeply　for　ever　imprinted　on　his　heart。　He　felt　clearly　now　that　the　bloody　print　of　that　memory　would　never　leave　him；　that　the　further　he　went　the　more　cruelly；　the　more　vindictively；　would　that　fearful　memory　rankle　in　his　heart　to　the　end　of　his　life。　He　seemed　to　be　hearing　now　the　sound　of　his　own　words：　“Tear　him　to　pieces；　you　shall　answer　for　it　to　me！—　Why　did　I　say　these　words？　I　said　it　somehow　without　meaning　to　…　I　might　not　have　said　them；”　he　thought；　“and　then　nothing　would　have　happened。”　He　saw　the　terror…stricken；　and　then　suddenly　frenzied　face　of　the　dragoon　who　had　struck　the　first　blow；　and　the　glance　of　silent；　timid　reproach　cast　on　him　by　that　lad　in　the　fox…lined　coat。　“But　I　didn’t　do　it　on　my　own　account。　I　was　bound　to　act　in　that　way。　La　plèbe　…　le　tra？tre　…　le　bien　publique；　…”　he　mused。
The　bridge　over　the　Yauza　was　still　crowded　with　troops。　It　was　hot。　Kutuzov；　looking　careworn　and　weary；　was　sitting　on　a　bench　near　the　bridge；　and　playing　with　a　whip　on　the　sand；　when　a　carriage　rattled　noisily　up　to　him。　A　man　in　the　uniform　of　a　general；　wearing　a　hat　with　plumes；　came　up　to　Kutuzov。　He　began　addressing　him　in　French；　his　eyes　shifting　uneasily；　with　a　look　between　anger　and　terror　in　them。　It　was　Count　Rastoptchin。　He　told　Kutuzov　that　he　had　come　here；　for　since　Moscow　was　no　more；　the　army　was　all　that　was　left。　“It　might　have　been　very　different　if　your　highness　had　not　told　me　you　would　not　abandon　Moscow　without　a　battle；　all　this　would　not　have　been！”　said　he。
Kutuzov　stared　at　Rastoptchin；　and；　as　though　not　understanding　the　meaning　of　the　words　addressed　to　him；　he　strove　earnestly　to　decipher　the　special　meaning　betrayed　at　that　minute　on　the　face　of　the　man　addressing　him。　Rastoptchin　ceased　speaking　in　discomfiture。　Kutuzov　slightly　shook　his　head；　and；　still　keeping　his　searching　eyes　on　Rastoptchin’s　face；　he　murmured　softly：
“Yes；　I　won’t　give　up　Moscow　without　a　battle。”
Whether　Kutuzov　was　thinking　of　something　different　when　he　uttered　those　words；　or　said　them　purposely；　knowing　them　to　be　meaningless；　Count　Rastoptchin　made　him　no　reply；　and　hastily　left　him。　And—strange　to　tell！　the　governor　of　Moscow；　the　proud　Count　Rastoptchin；　picking　up　a　horse　whip；　went　to　the　bridge；　and　fell　to　shouting　and　driving　on　the　crowded　carts。


Chapter　26
AT　FOUR　O’CLOCK　in　the　afternoon；　Murat’s　troops　entered　Moscow。　In　front　rode　a　detachment　of　Würtemberg　hussars；　behind；　with　an　immense　suite；　rode　the　King　of　Naples　himself。
Near　the　middle　of　Arbaty；　close　to　Nikola　Yavlenny；　Murat　halted　to　await　information　from　the　detachment　in　advance　as　to　the　condition　in　which　the　citadel　of　the　city；　“le　Kremlin；”　had　been　found。
A　small　group　of　inhabitants　of　Moscow　had　gathered　about　Murat。　All　stared　with　timid　astonishment　at　the　strange　figure　of　the　long…haired　commander；　decked　in　gold　and　feathers。
“Why；　is　this　their　Tsar　himself？　Nought　amiss　with　him；”　voices　were　heard　saying　softly。
An　interpreter　approached　the　group　of　gazers。
“Caps　…　caps　off；”　they　muttered；　turning　to　each　other　in　the　little　crowd。　The　interpreter　accosted　one　old　porter；　and　asked　him　if　it　were　far　to　the　Kremlin。　The　porter；　listening　with　surprise　to　the　unfamiliar　Polish　accent；　and　not　recognising　the　interpreter’s　words　for　Russian；　had　no　notion　what　was　being　said　to　him；　and　took　refuge　behind　the　others。
Murat　approached　the　interpreter；　and　told　him　to　ask　where　were　the　Russian　troops。　One　of　the　Russians　understood　this　question；　and　several　voices　began　answering　the　interpreter　simultaneously。　A　French　officer　from　the　detachment　in　advance　rode　up　to　Murat　and　reported　that　the　gates　into　the　citadel　were　blocked　up；　and　that　probably　there　was　an　ambush　there。
“Good；”　said　Murat；　and　turning　to　one　of　the　gentlemen　of　his　suite；　he　commanded　four　light　cannons　to　be　moved　forward；　and　the　gates　to　be　shelled　upon。
The　artillery　came　trotting　out　from　the　column　following　Murat；　and　advanced　along　Arbaty。　When　they　reached　the　end　of　Vosdvizhenka　the　artillery　halted　and　drew　up　in　the　square。　Several　French　officers　superintended　the　placing　of　the　cannon　some　distance　apart；　and　looked　at　the　Kremlin　through　a　field…glass。　A　bell　was　ringing　in　the　Kremlin　for　evening　service；　and　that　sound　troubled　the　French。　They　supposed　that　it　was　the　call　to　arms。　Several　infantry　soldiers　ran　to　the　Kutafyev　gateway。　A　barricade　of　beams　and　planks　lay　across　the　gateway。　Two　musket　shots　rang　out　from　the　gates；　just　as　an　officer　with　some　men　were　running　up　to　them。　The　general　standing　by　the　cannons　shouted　some　words　of　command　to　the　officer；　and　the　officer　and　the　soldiers　ran　back。
Three　more　shots　were　heard　from　the　gate。　One　shot　grazed　the　leg　of　a　French　soldier；　and　a　strange　shout　of　several　voices　rose　from　behind　the　barricade。　Instantaneously；　as　though　at　the　word　of　command；　the　expression　of　good　humour　and　serenity　on　the　faces　of　the　French　general；　officers；　and　men　was　replaced　by　a　stubborn；　concentrated　expression　of　readiness　for　conflict　and　suffering。　To　all　of　them；　from　the　marshal　to　the　lowest　soldier；　this　place　was　not　Vosdvizhenka；　Mohova；　Kutaf；　and　the　Troitsky　gates；　it　was　a　new　battlefield；　likely　to　be　the　scene　of　a　bloody　conflict。　And　all　wer