For the cold had come at length, and
not a horse in the French army was roughed for the snowy roads, nor,
indeed, had provision been made to rough them. This was a sign not
lost upon those who had horses to care for. The Emperor, who forgot
nothing, had forgotten this. He who foresaw everything, had omitted
to foresee the winter. He had ordered a retreat from Moscow, in the
middle of October, of an army in summer clothing, without provision
for the road. The only hope was to retreat through a new line of
country not despoiled by the enormous army in its advance of every
grain of corn, every blade of grass. But this hope was frustrated by
the Russians who, hemming them in, forced them to keep the road
along which they had made so triumphant a march on Moscow.
Already, in the ranks, it was whispered that by the light of the
burning city some had perceived dark forms moving on the distant
plains--a Russian army passing westward in front of them to await
and cut them off at the passage of some river. The Russians had
fought well at Borodino: they fought desperately at Malo-
Jaroslavetz, which town was taken and retaken eleven times and left
in cinders.
The Grand Army was no longer in a position to choose its way. It
was forced to cross again the battlefield of Borodino, where thirty
thousand dead lay yet unburied. But Napoleon was still with them,
his genius flashing out at times with something of the fire which
had taken men's breath away and burnt his name indelibly into the
pages of the world's history.
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