he rank, stepped briskly forward.

"Where are you off to? Stop here!" voices whispered to Lazarev who did
not know where to go. Lazarev stopped, casting a sidelong look at his
colonel in alarm. His face twitched, as often happens to soldiers called
before the ranks.

Napoleon slightly turned his head, and put his plump little hand out
behind him as if to take something. The members of his suite, guessing
at once what he wanted, moved about and whispered as they passed
something from one to another, and a page--the same one Rostov had seen
the previous evening at Boris'--ran forward and, bowing respectfully
over the outstretched hand and not keeping it waiting a moment, laid
in it an Order on a red ribbon. Napoleon, without looking, pressed two
fingers together and the badge was between them. Then he approached
Lazarev (who rolled his eyes and persistently gazed at his own monarch),
looked round at the Emperor Alexander to imply that what he was now
doing was done for the sake of his ally, and the small white hand
holding the Order touched one of Lazarev's buttons. It was as if
Napoleon knew that it was only necessary for his hand to deign to touch
that soldier's breast for the soldier to be forever happy, rewarded, and
distinguished from everyone else in the world. Napoleon merely laid
the cross on Lazarev's breast and, dropping his hand, turned toward
Alexander as though sure that the cross would adhere there. And it
really did.

Officious hands, Russian and French, immediately seized the cross and
fastened it to the uniform. Lazarev glanced morosely at the little man
with white hands who was doing something to him and, still standing
motionless presenting arms, looked again straight into Alexander's eyes,
as if asking whether he should stand there, or go away, or do something
else. But receiving no orders, he remained for some time in that rigid
position.

The Emperors remounted and rode away. The Preobrazhensk battalion,
breaking rank, mingled with the French Guards and sat down at the tables
prepared for them.

Lazarev sat in the place of honor. Russian and French officers embraced
him, congratulated him, and pressed his hands. Crowds of officers and
civilians drew near merely to see him. A rumble of Russian and French
voices and laughter filled the air round the tables in the square.
Two officers with flushed faces, looking cheerful and happy, passed by
Rostov.

"What d'you think of the treat? All on silver