When Prince Smolensky's strategy had found a way to curb the foe's presumptuous heart, the modern Vandals were snared for ruin. Moscow was left to them for their undoing.
Then all, great and small, each blessed soul alive, packed up without an hour's delay and streamed away from the walls of Moscow like a swarm of bees leaving the hive.
A crow upon a roof, slowly cleaning her beak, surveyed the tumult from her perch.
'Why, friend, it's surely time to start?' called out a hen from a cart. 'Our ruthless foe stands at the gate even as I speak.'
'And what harm is that to me?' the augur bird replied. 'I shall hold my own, you'll see. You chicken-hearts, go if you must! But folk will neither roast nor stew a crow. My guests and I will get on well enough. Who knows? I may even find some dainty snacks—a bit of cheese, a bone, or something good. Good luck on the road, dear Henny! Farewell!'
So the crow stayed behind. And what happened? Instead of snacks to embellish her board, when the French, caught in Smolensky's clutch, tightened their belts, they cooked the crow as well to give their soup a relish.
Human reckonings often prove as blind and foolish. You think you're close on Fortune's heels, about to catch the prize. Yet when the final accounts are made, you find yourself in the soup—just like our crow.