“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.” “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.”[48] “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 glorious _mêlée_--the grandest I have ever seen. Think of Pacthod giving his sword into the Czar’s own hand, and not dreaming until afterwards that the gallant cavalry officer whose courage and promptitude averted a massacre was the Emperor himself!”[49] “Ach, wunderschön!” cried Schubart. “Herr Tolstoi, I would take your wound twice over to have been in the midst of it.”