War and Peace
“Catch hold!” whispered Gerásim to the porter.
They seized Makár Alexéevich by the arms and dragged him to the door.
The vestibule was filled with the discordant sounds of a struggle and of
a tipsy, hoarse voice.
Suddenly a fresh sound, a piercing feminine scream, reverberated from
the porch and the cook came running into the vestibule.
“It’s them! Gracious heavens! O Lord, four of them, horsemen!” she
cried.
Gerásim and the porter let Makár Alexéevich go, and in the now silent
corridor the sound of several hands knocking at the front door could be
heard.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Pierre, having decided that until he had carried out his design he would
disclose neither his identity nor his knowledge of French, stood at the
half-open door of the corridor, intending to conceal himself as soon
as the French entered. But the French entered and still Pierre did not
retire—an irresistible curiosity kept him there.
There were two of them. One was an officer—a tall, soldierly, handsome
man—the other evidently a private or an orderly, sunburned, short, and
thin, with sunken cheeks and a dull expression. The officer walked in
front, leaning on a stick and slightly limping. When he had advanced
a few steps he stopped, having apparently decided that these were good
quarters, turned round to the soldiers standing at the entrance, and in
a loud voice of command ordered them to put up the horses. Having done
that, the officer, lifting his elbow with a smart gesture, stroked his
mustache and lightly touched his hat.
“Bonjour, la compagnie!” * said he gaily, smiling and looking about him.
* “Good day, everybody!”
No one gave any reply.
“Vous êtes le bourgeois?” * the officer asked Gerásim.
* “Are you the master here?”
Gerásim gazed at the officer with an alarmed and inquiring look.
“Quartier, quartier, logement!” said the officer, looking down at the
little man with a condescending and good-natured smile. “Les français
sont de bons enfants. Que diable! Voyons! Ne nous fâchons pas, mon
vieux!” * added he, clapping the scared and silent Gerásim on the
shoulder. “Well, does no one speak French in this establishment?” he
asked again in French, looking around and meeting Pierre’s eyes. Pierre
moved away from the door.
* “Quarters, quarters, lodgings! The French are good
fellows. What the devil! There, don’t let us be cross, old
fellow!”
Again the officer turned to Gerásim and asked him to show him the rooms
in the house.
“Master, not here—don’t understand... me, you...” said Gerásim, trying
to render his words more comprehensible by contorting them.
Still smiling, the French officer spread out his hands before Gerásim’s
nose, intimating that he did not understand him either, and moved,
limping, to the door at which Pierre was standing. Pierre wished to go
away and conceal himself, but at that moment he saw Makár Alexéevich
appearing at the open kitchen door with the pistol in his hand. With
a madman’s cunning, Makár Alexéevich eyed the Frenchman, raised his
pistol, and took aim.
“Board them!” yelled the tipsy man, trying to press the trigger. Hearing
the yell the officer turned round, and at the same moment Pierre threw
himself on the drunkard. Just when Pierre snatched at and struck up the
pistol Makár Alexéevich at last got his fingers on the trigger, there
was a deafening report, and all were enveloped in a cloud of smoke. The
Frenchman turned pale and rushed to the door.
Forgetting his intention of concealing his knowledge of French, Pierre,
snatching away the pistol and throwing it down, ran up to the officer
and addressed him in French.
“You are not wounded?” he asked.
“I think not,” answered the Frenchman, feeling himself over. “But I have
had a lucky escape this time,” he added, pointing to the damaged plaster
of the wall. “Who is that man?” said he, looking sternly at Pierre.
“Oh, I am really in despair at what has occurred,” said Pierre rapidly,
quite forgetting the part he had intended to play. “He is an unfortunate
madman who did not know what he was doing.”
The officer went up to Makár Alexéevich and took him by the collar.
Makár Alexéevich was standing with parted lips, swaying, as if about to
fall asleep, as he leaned against the wall.
“Brigand! You shall pay for this,” said the Frenchman, letting go
of him. “We French are merciful after victory, but we do not pardon
traitors,” he added, with a look of gloomy dignity and a fine energetic
gesture.
Pierre continued, in French, to persuade the officer not to hold that
drunken imbecile to account. The Frenchman listened in silence with the
same gloomy expression, but suddenly turned to Pierre with a smile. For
a few seconds he looked at him in silence. His handsome face assumed a
melodramatically gentle expression and he held out his hand.
“You have saved my life. You are French,” said he.
For a Frenchman that deduction was indubitable. Only a Frenchman could
perform a great deed, and to save his life—the life of M. Ramballe,
captain of the 13th Light Regiment—was undoubtedly a very great deed.
But however indubitable that conclusion and the officer’s conviction
based upon it, Pierre felt it necessary to disillusion him.
“I am Russian,” he said quickly.
“Tut, tut, tut! Tell that to others,” said the officer, waving his
finger before his nose and smiling. “You shall tell me all about that
presently. I am delighted to meet a compatriot. Well, and what are we
to do with this man?” he added, addressing himself to Pierre as to a
brother.
Even if Pierre were not a Frenchman, having once received that loftiest
of human appellations he could not renounce it, said the officer’s look
and tone. In reply to his last question Pierre again explained who Makár
Alexéevich was and how just before their arrival that drunken imbecile
had seized the loaded pistol which they had not had time to recover from
him, and begged the officer to let the deed go unpunished.
The Frenchman expanded his chest and made a majestic gesture with his
arm.
“You have saved my life! You are French. You ask his pardon? I grant it
you. Lead that man away!” said he quickly and energetically, and taking
the arm of Pierre whom he had promoted to be a Frenchman for saving his
life, he went with him into the room.
The soldiers in the yard, hearing the shot, came into the passage asking
what had happened, and expressed their readiness to punish the culprits,
but the officer sternly checked them.
“You will be called in when you are wanted,” he said.
The soldiers went out again, and the orderly, who had meanwhile had time
to visit the kitchen, came up to his officer.
“Captain, there is soup and a leg of mutton in the kitchen,” said he.
“Shall I serve them up?”
“Yes, and some wine,” answered the captain.
CHAPTER XXIX
When the French officer went into the room with Pierre the latter again
thought it his duty to assure him that he was not French and wished to
go away, but the officer would not hear of it. He was so very polite,
amiable, good-natured, and genuinely grateful to Pierre for saving his
life that Pierre had not the heart to refuse, and sat down with him in
the parlor—the first room they entered. To Pierre’s assurances that he
was not a Frenchman, the captain, evidently not understanding how anyone
could decline so flattering an appellation, shrugged his shoulders and
said that if Pierre absolutely insisted on passing for a Russian let it
be so, but for all that he would be forever bound to Pierre by gratitude
for saving his life.
Had this man been endowed with the slightest capacity for perceiving the
feelings of others, and had he at all understood what Pierre’s feelings
were, the latter would probably have left him, but the man’s animated
obtuseness to everything other than himself disarmed Pierre.
“A Frenchman or a Russian prince incognito,” said the officer, looking
at Pierre’s fine though dirty linen and at the ring on his finger.
“I owe my life to you and offer you my friendship. A Frenchman never
forgets either an insult or a service. I offer you my friendship. That
is all I can say.”
There was so much good nature and nobility (in the French sense of the
word) in the officer’s voice, in the expression of his face and in
his gestures, that Pierre, unconsciously smiling in response to the
Frenchman’s smile, pressed the hand held out to him.
“Captain Ramballe, of the 13th Light Regiment, Chevalier of the Legion
of Honor for the affair on the seventh of September,” he introduced
himself, a self-satisfied irrepressible smile puckering his lips under
his mustache. “Will you now be so good as to tell me with whom I have
the honor of conversing so pleasantly, instead of being in the ambulance
with that maniac’s bullet in my body?”
Pierre replied that he could not tell him his name and, blushing,
began to try to invent a name and to say something about his reason for
concealing it, but the Frenchman hastily interrupted him.
“Oh, please!” said he. “I understand your reasons. You are an officer...
a superior officer perhaps. You have borne arms against us. That’s not
my business. I owe you my life. That is enough for me. I am quite at
your service. You belong to the gentry?” he concluded with a shade of
inquiry in his tone. Pierre bent his head. “Your baptismal name, if you
please. That is all I ask. Monsieur Pierre, you say.... That’s all I
want to know.”
When the mutton and an omelet had been served and a samovar and vodka
brought, with some wine which the French had taken from a Russian cellar
and brought with them, Ramballe invited Pierre to share his dinner, and
himself began to eat greedily and quickly like a healthy and hungry man,
munching his food rapidly with his strong teeth, continually smacking
his lips, and repeating—“Excellent! Delicious!” His face grew red and
was covered with perspiration. Pierre was hungry and shared the dinner
with pleasure. Morel, the orderly, brought some hot water in a saucepan
and placed a bottle of claret in it. He also brought a bottle of kvass,
taken from the kitchen for them to try. That beverage was already known
to the French and had been given a special name. They called it limonade
de cochon (pig’s lemonade), and Morel spoke well of the limonade de
cochon he had found in the kitchen. But as the captain had the wine they
had taken while passing through Moscow, he left the kvass to Morel and
applied himself to the bottle of Bordeaux. He wrapped the bottle up
to its neck in a table napkin and poured out wine for himself and for
Pierre. The satisfaction of his hunger and the wine rendered the captain
still more lively and he chatted incessantly all through dinner.
“Yes, my dear Monsieur Pierre, I owe you a fine votive candle for
saving me from that maniac.... You see, I have bullets enough in my
body already. Here is one I got at Wagram” (he touched his side) “and a
second at Smolénsk”—he showed a scar on his cheek—“and this leg which as
you see does not want to march, I got that on the seventh at the great
battle of la Moskowa. Sacré Dieu! It was splendid! That deluge of fire
was worth seeing. It was a tough job you set us there, my word! You may
be proud of it! And on my honor, in spite of the cough I caught there, I
should be ready to begin again. I pity those who did not see it.”
“I was there,” said Pierre.
“Bah, really? So much the better! You are certainly brave foes. The
great redoubt held out well, by my pipe!” continued the Frenchman. “And
you made us pay dear for it. I was at it three times—sure as I sit here.
Three times we reached the guns and three times we were thrown back
like cardboard figures. Oh, it was beautiful, Monsieur Pierre! Your