At that moment in the distance behind Kutuzov there were sounds of regiments saluting； the shouts came rapidly nearer along the whole drawn-out line of the advancing Russian columns. Clearly he who was the object of these greetings was riding quickly. When the soldiers of the regiment， in front of which Kutuzov was standing， began to shout， he rode off a little on one side， and wrinkling up his face， looked round. Along the road from Pratzen， galloped what looked like a whole squadron of horsemen of different colours. Two of them galloped side by side ahead of the rest. One was in a black uniform with a white plume， on a chestnut English thoroughbred， the other in a white uniform on a black horse. These were the two Emperors and their suites. With a sort of affectation of the manner of an old soldier at the head of his regiment， Kutuzov gave the command， “Steady，” to the standing troops and rode up to the Emperors， saluting. His whole figure and manner were suddenly transformed. He assumed the air of a subordinate， a man who accepts without criticism. With an affectation of respectfulness which unmistakably made an unpleasant impression on Alexander， he rode up and saluted him.
The unpleasant impression， like the traces of fog in a clear sky， merely flitted across the young and happy face of the Emperor and vanished. He looked that day rather thinner after his illness than he had been at the review of Olmütz， where Bolkonsky had seen him for the first time abroad. But there was the same bewitching combination of majesty and mildness in his fine， grey eyes， and on his delicate lips the same possibility of varying expressions and the predominant expression of noble-hearted， guileless youth.
At the Olmütz review he had been more majestic， here he was livelier and more energetic. He was flushed a little from the rapid three-verst gallop， and as he pulled up his horse， he breathed a sigh of relief， and looked round at those among the faces of his suite that were as young and eager as his own. Behind the Tsar were Tchartorizhsky， and Novosiltsov， and Prince Bolkonsky， and Stroganov， and the rest， all richly dressed， gay young men on splendid， well-groomed， fresh horses， slightly heated from the gallop. The Emperor Francis， a rosy， long-faced young man， sat excessively erect on his handsome sable horse， casting deliberate and anxious looks around him. He beckoned one of his white adjutants and asked him a question. “Most likely at what o’clock they started，” thought Prince Andrey， watching his old acquaintance with a smile， which he could not repress， as he remembered his audience with him. With the Emperors’ suite were a certain number of fashionable young aristocrats—Russians and Austrians selected from the regiments of the guards and the line. Among them were postillions leading extra horses， beautiful beasts from the Tsar’s stables， covered with embroidered horsecloths.
Like a breath of fresh country air rushing into a stuffy room through an open window was the youth， energy， and confidence of success that the cavalcade of brilliant young people brought with them into Kutuzov’s cheerless staff.
“Why aren’t you beginning， Mihail Larionovitch？” the Emperor Alexander said hurriedly， addressing Kutuzov， while he glanced courteously towards the Emperor Francis.
“I am waiting to see， your majesty，” Kutuzov answered， bowing reverentially.
The Emperor turned his ear towards him， with a slight frown and an air of not having caught his words.
