To aggravate and crown all this misery, dejection, and terror, came the overwhelming tidings of the destruction of Moscow. In some ways it was a calamity more bitter, more crushing than that of St. Petersburg would have been. While the one was the official capital, the other was the real heart of the old Muscovite empire. Here the Czars were baptized, were crowned, were buried; here were heaped all the treasures, were concentrated all the glories of their past. It was their holy city, their Jerusalem. No one knew as yet that its destruction had been a signal act of patriotism and self-sacrifice; almost all the world, including the Czar himself, believed that the French had consummated their atrocities by setting fire to the city. Nor could he or others foresee the future, or discern at once amidst the dust and smoke of the conflict that the victory, in truth, was won. The final hour of Napoleon’s triumph had struck, but the toll of fate was audible neither to friend nor foe; and to Alexander and to Russia the day that saw the fall of Moscow seemed the darkest that had ever dawned upon them. In the heart of Alexander it left “a profound and bitter sorrow,” which neither time, nor victory, nor glory could ever wholly obliterate. Long afterwards, when conquered France offered the conqueror pecuniary compensation, he answered with proud sadness, “Gold can never give me Moscow back again.” Yet not for one moment did his courage fail or his determination falter. His wife implored him with tears to make peace, or to allow her to leave the empire. His mother, less submissive, actually prepared to go. He gently dissuaded her from a course so injurious to the interests of the country, and at last, when she refused to listen, he said firmly, “I have entreated you as a son; I now command you as your sovereign. You shall not go.” Amidst the universal panic he alone stood firm. Naturally susceptible, tender-hearted, perhaps even irresolute, the hour of trial found him undaunted as the fiercest of his barbarian ancestors. Like the delicate mainspring of some complicated machine which sustains a pressure that would shatter a bar of iron, so this fine sensitive nature assumed the best attributes of strength, and bore up triumphantly against a world in arms.