To such customary routine belonged his conversations with the staff, the letters he wrote from Tarútino to Madame de Staël, the reading of novels, the distribution of awards, his correspondence with Petersburg, and so on. But the destruction of the French, which he alone foresaw, was his heart’s one desire.

On the night of the eleventh of October he lay leaning on his arm and thinking of that.

There was a stir in the next room and he heard the steps of Toll, Konovnítsyn, and Bolkhovítinov.

“Eh, who’s there? Come in, come in! What news?” the field marshal called out to them.

While a footman was lighting a candle, Toll communicated the substance of the news.

“Who brought it?” asked Kutúzov with a look which, when the candle was lit, struck Toll by its cold severity.

“There can be no doubt about it, your Highness.”