for assemblies
at the palace of the Tsars, at which Russian notables and his own would
mingle. He mentally appointed a governor, one who would win the
hearts of the people. Having learned that there were many charitable
institutions in Moscow he mentally decided that he would shower favors
on them all. He thought that, as in Africa he had to put on a burnoose
and sit in a mosque, so in Moscow he must be beneficent like the Tsars.
And in order finally to touch the hearts of the Russians--and being like
all Frenchmen unable to imagine anything sentimental without a reference
to ma chere, ma tendre, ma pauvre mere * --he decided that he would
place an inscription on all these establishments in large letters:
"This establishment is dedicated to my dear mother." Or no, it should
be simply: Maison de ma Mere, *(2) he concluded. "But am I really in
Moscow? Yes, here it lies before me, but why is the deputation from the
city so long in appearing?" he wondered.

* "My dear, my tender, my poor mother."

* (2) "House of my Mother."

Meanwhile an agitated consultation was being carried on in whispers
among his generals and marshals at the rear of his suite. Those sent to
fetch the deputation had returned with the news that Moscow was empty,
that everyone had left it. The faces of those who were not conferring
together were pale and perturbed. They were not alarmed by the fact
that Moscow had been abandoned by its inhabitants (grave as that fact
seemed), but by the question how to tell the Emperor--without putting
him in the terrible position of appearing ridiculous--that he had been
awaiting the boyars so long in vain: that there were drunken mobs left
in Moscow but no one else. Some said that a deputation of some sort must
be scraped together, others disputed that opinion and maintained that
the Emperor should first be carefully and skillfully prepared, and then
told the truth.

"He will have to be told, all the same," said some gentlemen of the
suite. "But, gentlemen..."

The position was the more awkward because the Emperor, meditating upon
his magnanimous plans, was pacing patiently up and down before the
outspread map, occasionally glancing along the road to Moscow from under
his lifted hand with a bright and proud smile.

"But it's impossible..." declared the gentlemen of the suite, shrugging
their shoulders but not venturing to utter the implied word--le
ridicule...

At last the Emperor, tired of futi