At eight o'clock Kutúzov rides to Pratzen at the head of the fourth column, Milorádovich's, which is to take the place of Przebyszéwski's and Langeron's, already down in the valley. He greets the foremost regiment and gives the order to march, showing that he means to lead this column himself. At the village he halts. Prince Andrew, among the immense suite, is in suppressed excitement, sure that this is the day of his Toulon or his bridge of Arcola. His own plan is forgotten; now, entering Weyrother's, he forms new projects for rapid decision. To the left below, musketry of unseen forces sounds in the mist. There, he thinks, the fight will concentrate, and there, standard in hand, he will be sent. He cannot look calmly at the passing colours: that may be the very standard with which he will lead. On the heights the night mist is only hoar frost turning to dew; in the valleys it still lies like a milk-white sea. Kutúzov, worn and irritable, snaps at a general whose infantry have halted in the village: they must not defile through narrow streets when marching against the enemy. The general cites the dispositions; Kutúzov laughs bitterly. Who told him that? Nesvítski whispers that the old man is as surly as a dog.
An Austrian officer in white with green plumes asks in the Emperor's name whether the fourth column has advanced. Kutúzov does not answer him. Seeing Andrew, his caustic look softens; he sends him to stop the third division and ask whether sharpshooters have been posted. Andrew finds none. The colonel is surprised: he was sure other troops were in front and the enemy at least six miles off. Nothing is visible but a barren descent hidden by mist. Andrew gives the order in Kutúzov's name and gallops back. The commander in chief yawns, eyes closed. A general with a watch says it is time: the left-flank columns have already descended. "Plenty of time," Kutúzov mutters in a yawn.
Regiments saluting come rapidly nearer. Two riders at full gallop, one in black on a bobtailed chestnut, one in white on a black horse, are the Emperors, followed by Czartorýski, Novosíltsev, Volkónsky, Strógonov, and other richly dressed young men. A whiff of youth and confidence of success reaches Kutúzov's cheerless staff. He puts on the air of a subordinate who obeys without reasoning. Alexander, thinner after his illness, still has the same mild grey eyes and look of goodhearted youth. "Why aren't you beginning, Michael Ilariónovich?" Kutúzov is waiting; not all the columns have formed up. The Tsar does not like it. They are not on the Empress' Field, where a parade waits for every regiment. Kutúzov answers, lip twitching, that that is just why he does not begin: they are not on parade. A minute of silence. "However, if you command it, Your Majesty," he says, and orders Milorádovich forward. Two Nóvgorod battalions and one of the Ápsheron pass the Emperor. Red-faced Milorádovich, without a greatcoat, an enormous tuft of plumes on his cocked hat, reins in with a dashing salute and poor French that raises ironic smiles. He forgets the sovereigns and shouts to the Ápsherons that it is not the first village they have had to take. "Glad to do our best!" The Emperor's review horse starts at the cry, pricking its ears at shots as it did on the Empress' Field, not understanding this day. Alexander smiles and points out the gallant Ápsherons to a follower.
