rdens, but all silent and seemingly
deserted.

The city was there, but where were the people? Solitude surrounded him.
Not an inhabitant was to be seen. It seemed a city of the dead. Into
Berlin, Vienna, and other capitals had the French army entered, but
never had it seen anything like this utter solitude. The inhabitants, so
the surprised soldiers fancied, must be cowering in terror within their
houses. This desolation could not continue. Moscow was known as one of
the most bustling cities in Europe. As soon as the people learned that
no harm was meant them, the streets would again swarm with busy life.
Hugging this flattering opinion to his soul, Murat rode on, threading
the silent city.

Ah! here were some of the people. A few distracted individuals had
appeared in the streets. Murat rode up to them, to find that they were
French, belonging to the foreign colony of Moscow. They begged piteously
for protection from the robbers, who, they said, had become masters of
the town. They told Murat more than this, destroying the pleasant
picture of a submissive and contented population with which he had
solaced his mind. The population had fled, they said; no one was left in
the city except a few strangers and some Russians who knew the ways of
the French and did not fear them. In their place was a crew of thieves
and bandits whom the Count of Rostopchin had let loose on deserted
Moscow, emptying the prisons and setting these convicts free to ravage
the city at their will.

Further evidence of this disheartening story was soon forthcoming. When
the French approached the Kremlin they were saluted by a discharge of
musketry. Some of the villanous crew had invaded the capitol, seized on
the guns in the arsenal, and were firing on the invaders. A few minutes
settled this last effort in the defence of Moscow. The citadel was
entered at a charge, several of the villanous crew were sabred, and the
others put to flight. The French had the town, but it was an empty one,
its only inmates being thieves and strangers.

The next morning, September 15, 1812, Napoleon made his triumphal march
into Moscow, at the head of his conquering legions. But for the first
time in his career of victory he found himself in the streets of a
deserted city, advancing through empty avenues, to whose windows the
tread of marching feet called not an eye to witness the triumph of
France. It was a gloomy and threatening impression which was experienced
by