Sire, this war which your majesty is about to commence is no
ordinary war: the enemy will not oppose you in the open field; like
the Parthian, he will seemingly flee from his pursuer; he will decoy
you forward, but in the thicket or ravine he will conceal himself,
and when you pass by will have you at an advantage. He will never
allow you to fight him in a pitched battle, but every village and
cottage will be an obstacle, a rampart obstructing your route. Every
peasant will regard himself a soldier, and believe it his bounden
duty to fight, however sure he may be to die. Sire, the terrible
scenes in Spain may be renewed in Russia, for all Russia will be a
vast Saragossa; women, children, and old men, will participate in
this struggle; they will die eating poisoned bread with the enemy,
rather than give him wholesome food."
"You are exaggerating!" exclaimed Napoleon, sneeringly. "In truth,
it is mere imagination to compare the Russian serf--the blood in
whose veins is frozen by Siberian cold, and whose back is cut up and
bowed by the knout--with the Spaniard, passionate and free beneath a
torrid sun, and who in his rags still feels himself noble and a
grandee. But these exaggerations shall not influence me! The die is
cast: I cannot recede! Great Heaven! this tedious old Europe! I will
bring from Russia the keys to unlock a new world.
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