At eight o'clock Kutuzov rode to Pratzen at the head of Miloradovich's fourth column, the one that was to take the place of Przhebyshevsky's and Langeron's columns, which had already gone down. He greeted the men of the foremost regiment and gave the order to advance, thereby showing that he intended to lead that column himself. On reaching the village of Pratzen he halted. Prince Andrei, among the huge number of persons forming the commander in chief's suite, stood behind him. Prince Andrei felt excited, irritable, and at the same time restrainedly calm, as a man is when a long-desired moment approaches. He was firmly convinced that today was the day of his Toulon, or his Arcole bridge. How it would happen he did not know, but he was firmly convinced that it would be so. The locality and the position of our troops were known to him as far as they could be known to anyone in our army. His own strategic plan, which obviously there was now no thought of carrying out, had been forgotten by him. Now, already entering into Weyrother's plan, Prince Andrei considered possible contingencies and made new calculations, such as might require his rapidity of thought and decision.

To the left below, in the fog, a fusillade was heard between unseen troops. There, it seemed to Prince Andrei, the battle would be concentrated, there the obstacle would be met, and "there I shall be sent," he thought, "with a brigade or division, and there, flag in hand, I shall go forward and break everything before me."

Prince Andrei could not look with indifference at the flags of the passing battalions. Looking at a flag, he kept thinking: perhaps that is the very flag with which I shall have to lead the troops.

By morning, the night fog had left only hoarfrost on the heights, turning into dew, but in the hollows the fog still spread like a milky-white sea. Nothing could be seen in that hollow to the left into which our troops had descended and from which the sounds of firing came. Above the heights was a dark, clear sky, and to the right the huge orb of the sun. Far ahead, on the other shore of the sea of fog, projecting wooded hills were visible, on which the enemy army was to be, and something could be seen. To the right the Guards were entering the region of fog, resounding with the tramp of feet and wheels and occasionally glinting with bayonets; to the left, beyond the village, similar masses of cavalry were approaching and disappearing into the sea of fog. In front and behind infantry was moving. The commander in chief stood at the exit of the village, letting the troops pass by him. Kutuzov that morning seemed exhausted and irritable. The infantry passing him stopped without orders, evidently because something in front had delayed it.

— Do tell them at last to form battalion columns and go round the village, — Kutuzov said angrily to a general who rode up. — How is it you don't understand, your excellency, my dear sir, that things can't be stretched out along the defile of a village street when we are advancing against the enemy?

— I proposed to form up beyond the village, your high excellency, — answered the general.

Kutuzov gave a bitter laugh.

— You will be in a fine state, deploying in sight of the enemy, very fine indeed.

— The enemy is still far away, your high excellency. According to the disposition...

— The disposition! — Kutuzov cried out bitterly. — And who told you that?... Kindly do what you are ordered.

— Yes, sir.

Mon cher, — Nesvitsky whispered to Prince Andrei, — le vieux est d'une humeur de chien. [Well, my dear fellow, the old man is in a dog's mood.]

An Austrian officer in a white uniform, with green plumes in his hat, galloped up to Kutuzov and asked in the Emperor's name: had the fourth column gone into action?

Kutuzov, without answering him, turned away, and his glance happened to fall on Prince Andrei, who was standing beside him. On seeing Bolkonsky, Kutuzov softened the angry and caustic expression of his glance, as if recognizing that his adjutant was not to blame for what was being done. And, without answering the Austrian adjutant, he addressed Bolkonsky:

Allez voir, mon cher, si la troisième division a dépassé le village. Dites-lui de s'arrêter et d'attendre mes ordres. [Go and see, my dear fellow, whether the third division has passed the village. Tell it to stop and wait for my orders.]

As soon as Prince Andrei had ridden off, he stopped him.

Et demandez-lui, si les tirailleurs sont postés, — he added. — Ce qu'ils font, ce qu'ils font! [And ask whether the skirmishers are posted. — What they are doing, what they are doing!] — he muttered to himself, still not answering the Austrian.

Prince Andrei galloped off to execute the order.

Overtaking all the battalions that were advancing, he stopped the 3rd Division and convinced himself that there really was no skirmish line in front of our columns. The regimental commander of the foremost regiment was very surprised by the order transmitted from the commander in chief to deploy skirmishers. The regimental commander was standing there in full confidence that there were still troops in front of him, and that the enemy could not be nearer than ten versts. Indeed, nothing was visible in front but a desolate tract sloping down and covered with dense fog. Having given orders in the commander in chief's name to rectify the omission, Prince Andrei galloped back. Kutuzov still stood in the same place and, having sunk his stout body heavily into the saddle with the heaviness of age, yawned heavily with his eyes closed. The troops were no longer moving, but stood with their muskets grounded.

— Good, good, — he said to Prince Andrei, and turned to a general who, watch in hand, was saying that it was time to move, since all the columns from the left flank had already descended.

— We shall have time enough, your excellency, — muttered Kutuzov through a yawn. — Time enough! — he repeated.

At that time, far behind Kutuzov, the sounds of regiments greeting someone were heard, and these voices began to approach rapidly along the whole extent of the stretched-out line of advancing Russian columns. It was evident that the person they were greeting was riding fast. When the soldiers of the regiment in front of which Kutuzov stood began to shout, he rode a little to one side and, frowning, looked round. Along the road from Pratzen what looked like a squadron of varicolored horsemen was galloping. Two of them at a fast gallop rode side by side ahead of the rest. One was in a black uniform with a white plume, on a chestnut English horse; the other in a white uniform on a black horse. These were the two Emperors with their suite. Kutuzov, with the affectation of an old soldier at the front, gave the command "attention" to the standing troops and, saluting, rode up to the Emperor. His whole figure and manner suddenly changed. He assumed the air of a subordinate, unreasoning man. With an affectation of respectfulness, which evidently struck the Emperor Alexander unpleasantly, he rode up and saluted him.

The unpleasant impression, merely like the remains of fog on a clear sky, flitted over the young and happy face of the Emperor and disappeared. He was, after his indisposition, a little thinner that day than on the Olmütz field where Bolkonsky had seen him for the first time abroad; but there was the same enchanting combination of majesty and mildness in his beautiful gray eyes, and on his thin lips the same possibility of varied expressions and the predominant expression of good-natured, innocent youth.

At the Olmütz review he had been more majestic; here he was more cheerful and energetic. He had flushed a little after galloping those three versts, and, halting his horse, he drew a restful breath and looked round at the equally young and animated faces of his suite. Czartoryski, Novosiltsev, Prince Volkonsky, Stroganov, and the others, all richly dressed, cheerful young men on beautiful, well-groomed, fresh, slightly sweating horses, stopped behind the sovereign, talking and smiling. The Emperor Francis, a rosy, long-faced young man, sat exceedingly straight on a handsome black stallion, looking around him in an anxious and unhurried manner. He beckoned to one of his white adjutants and asked something. "Probably what time they started," thought Prince Andrei, watching his old acquaintance, with a smile he could not repress as he recalled his audience. In the suite of the Emperors were picked, handsome orderlies, Russian and Austrian, from the Guards and army regiments. Among them equerries led beautiful reserve horses for the Tsars, covered with embroidered cloths.

Just as a breath of fresh country air suddenly blows through an open window into a stuffy room, so a breath of youth, energy, and confidence in success blew upon Kutuzov's cheerless staff from this brilliant galloping youth.

— Why do you not begin, Mikhail Ilarionovich? — the Emperor Alexander said hastily to Kutuzov, at the same time glancing courteously at the Emperor Francis.

— I am waiting, your majesty, — answered Kutuzov, bending forward respectfully.

The Emperor inclined his ear, frowning slightly and showing that he had not heard clearly.

— I am waiting, your majesty, — repeated Kutuzov (Prince Andrei noticed that Kutuzov's upper lip twitched unnaturally as he said the word "waiting"). — Not all the columns have assembled yet, your majesty.

The sovereign heard, but this answer evidently did not please him; he shrugged his rather stooping shoulders and glanced at Novosiltsev, who was standing near, as if complaining with that glance about Kutuzov.

— We are not on the Tsaritsyn Meadow, Mikhail Ilarionovich, where a parade is not begun until all the regiments have arrived, — said the sovereign, glancing again into the eyes of the Emperor Francis, as if inviting him, if not to take part, at least to listen to what he was saying; but the Emperor Francis, continuing to look around, did not listen.

— That is just why I do not begin, sire, — said Kutuzov in a resonant voice, as if to preclude the possibility of not being heard, and something twitched once more in his face. — That is just why I do not begin, sire, because we are not on parade and not on the Tsaritsyn Meadow, — he articulated clearly and distinctly.

In the sovereign's suite all the faces, exchanging instantaneous glances, expressed a murmur and reproach. "Old as he is, he ought not, he certainly ought not to speak like that," those faces expressed.

The sovereign looked fixedly and attentively into Kutuzov's eyes, waiting to see whether he would say anything more. But Kutuzov, for his part, respectfully bowing his head, also seemed to wait. The silence lasted for about a minute.

— However, if you order it, your majesty, — said Kutuzov, raising his head and again altering his tone to the former tone of a dull, unreasoning, but obedient general.

He touched his horse and, calling to him Miloradovich, the commander of the column, gave him the order to advance.

The troops moved again, and two battalions of the Novgorod regiment and a battalion of the Apsheron regiment moved forward past the sovereign.

As this Apsheron battalion passed, the ruddy Miloradovich, without an overcoat, in a uniform with orders, and with his hat bearing a huge plume worn askew and brim forward, galloped forward at full speed and, saluting dashingly, reined in his horse before the sovereign.

— With God, general, — said the sovereign to him.

Ma foi, sire, nous ferons ce que qui sera dans notre possibilité, sire, [Your majesty, we shall do everything that is in our power, your majesty,] — he answered cheerfully, nevertheless bringing a mocking smile to the lips of the gentlemen of the sovereign's suite by his bad French pronunciation.

Miloradovich turned his horse sharply and placed himself a little behind the sovereign. The Apsheron men, excited by the presence of the sovereign, went past the Emperors and their suites with a dashing, brisk step, beating time with their feet.

— Lads! — shouted Miloradovich in a loud, self-confident, and cheerful voice, evidently so excited by the sounds of firing, by the expectation of battle, and by the sight of the gallant Apsheron men, still his comrades from Suvorov's time, passing briskly before the Emperors, that he forgot the presence of the sovereign. — Lads, it's not the first village you've had to take! — he shouted.

— Glad to do our best! — shouted the soldiers.

The sovereign's horse shied at the unexpected shout. This horse, which had carried the sovereign at reviews in Russia, was here on the Austerlitz field carrying its rider, enduring his absent-minded kicks with his left foot, and pricking its ears at the sounds of the shots, just as it had done on the Field of Mars, not understanding the meaning either of those shots being heard, or of the proximity of the Emperor Francis's black stallion, or of all that the man who rode it was saying, thinking, and feeling that day.

The sovereign turned with a smile to one of his entourage, pointing to the gallant Apsheron men, and said something to him.