战争与和平(上)-第223章

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led　the　drunkard；　pressing　the　trigger。　The　French　officer　turned　round　at　the　scream；　and　at　the　same　instant　Pierre　dashed　at　the　drunken　man。　Just　as　Pierre　snatched　at　the　pistol　and　jerked　it　up；　Makar　Alexyevitch　succeeded　at　last　in　pressing　the　trigger；　and　a　deafening　shot　rang　out；　wrapping　every　one　in　a　cloud　of　smoke。　The　Frenchman　turned　pale　and　rushed　back　to　the　door。
Forgetting　his　intention　of　concealing　his　knowledge　of　French；　Pierre　pulled　away　the　pistol；　and　throwing　it　on　the　ground；　ran　to　the　officer　and　addressed　him　in　French。　“You　are　not　wounded？”　he　said。
“I　think　not；”　answered　the　officer；　feeling　himself；　“but　I　have　had　a　narrow　escape　this　time；”　he　added；　pointing　to　the　broken　plaster　in　the　wall。
“Who　is　this　man？”　he　asked；　looking　sternly　at　Pierre。
“Oh；　I　am　really　in　despair　at　what　has　happened；”　said　Pierre　quickly；　quite　forgetting　his　part。　“It　is　a　madman；　an　unhappy　creature；　who　did　not　know　what　he　was　doing。”
The　officer　went　up　to　Makar　Alexyevitch　and　took　him　by　the　collar。
Makar　Alexyevitch　pouting　out　his　lips；　nodded；　as　he　leaned　against　the　wall；　as　though　dropping　asleep。
“Brigand；　you　shall　pay　for　it；”　said　the　Frenchman；　letting　go　of　him。　“We　are　clement　after　victory；　but　we　do　not　pardon　traitors；”　he　added；　with　gloomy　dignity　in　his　face；　and　a　fine；　vigorous　gesture。
Pierre　tried　in　French　to　persuade　the　officer　not　to　be　severe　with　this　drunken　imbecile。　The　Frenchman　listened　in　silence；　with　the　same　gloomy　air；　and　then　suddenly　turned　with　a　smile　to　Pierre。　For　several　seconds　he　gazed　at　him　mutely。　His　handsome　face　assumed　an　expression　of　melodramatic　feeling；　and　he　held　out　his　hand。
“You　have　saved　my　life。　You　are　French；”　he　said。　For　a　Frenchman；　the　deduction　followed　indubitably。　An　heroic　action　could　only　be　performed　by　a　Frenchman；　and　to　save　the　life　of　him；　M。　Ramballe；　captain　of　the　13th　Light　Brigade；　was　undoubtedly　a　most　heroic　action。
But　however　indubitable　this　logic；　and　well　grounded　the　conviction　the　officer　based　on　it；　Pierre　thought　well　to　disillusion　him　on　the　subject。
“I　am　Russian；”　he　said　quickly。
“Tell　that　to　others；”　said　the　Frenchman；　smiling　and　waving　his　finger　before　his　nose。　“You　shall　tell　me　all　about　it　directly；”　he　said。　“Charmed　to　meet　a　compatriot。　Well；　what　are　we　to　do　with　this　man？”　he　added；　applying　to　Pierre　now　as　though　to　a　comrade。　If　Pierre　were　indeed　not　a　Frenchman；　he　would　hardly　on　receiving　that　appellation—the　most　honourable　in　the　world—care　to　disavow　it；　was　what　the　expression　and　tone　of　the　French　officer　suggested。　To　his　last　question　Pierre　explained　once　more　who　Makar　Alexyevitch　was。　He　explained　that　just　before　his　arrival　the　drunken　imbecile　had　carried　off　a　loaded　pistol；　which　they　had　not　succeeded　in　getting　from　him；　and　he　begged　him　to　let　his　action　go　unpunished。　The　Frenchman　arched　his　chest；　and　made　a　majestic　gesture　with　his　hand。
“You　have　saved　my　life！　You　are　a　Frenchman。　You　ask　me　to　pardon　him。　I　grant　you　his　pardon。　Let　this　man　be　released；”　the　French　officer　pronounced　with　rapidity　and　energy；　and　taking　the　arm　of　Pierre—　promoted　to　be　a　Frenchman　for　saving　his　life—he　was　walking　with　him　into　the　room。
The　soldiers　in　the　yard；　hearing　the　shot；　had　come　into　the　vestibule　to　ask　what　had　happened；　and　to　offer　their　services　in　punishing　the　offender；　but　the　officer　sternly　checked　them。
“You　will　be　sent　for　when　you　are　wanted；”　he　said。　The　soldiers　withdrew。　The　orderly；　who　had　meanwhile　been　in　the　kitchen；　came　in　to　the　officer。
“Captain；　they　have　soup　and　a　leg　of　mutton　in　the　kitchen；”　he　said。　“Shall　I　bring　it　up？”
“Yes；　and　the　wine；”　said　the　captain。


Chapter　29
AS　THE　FRENCH　OFFICER　drew　Pierre　with　him　into　the　room；　the　latter　thought　it　his　duty　to　assure　the　captain　again　that　he　was　not　a　Frenchman；　and　would　have　withdrawn；　but　the　French　officer　would　not　hear　of　it。　He　was　so　courteous；　polite；　good…humoured；　and　genuinely　grateful　to　him　for　saving　his　life　that　Pierre　had　not　the　heart　to　refuse；　and　sat　down　with　him　in　the　dining…room；　the　first　room　they　entered。　To　Pierre’s　asseveration　that　he　was　not　a　Frenchman；　the　captain；　plainly　unable　to　comprehend　how　any　one　could　refuse　so　flattering　a　title；　shrugged　his　shoulders；　and　said　that　if　he　insisted　in　passing　for　a　Russian；　so　be　it；　but　that　in　spite　of　that　he　should　yet　feel　bound　to　him　for　ever　by　sentiments　of　gratitude　for　the　defence　of　his　life。
If　this　man　had　been　endowed　with　even　the　slightest　faculty　of　perceiving　the　feelings　of　others；　and　had　had　the　faintest　inkling　of　Pierre’s　sentiments；　the　latter　would　probably　have　left　him。　But　his　lively　impenetrability　to　everything　not　himself　vanquished　Pierre。
“Frenchman　or　Russian　prince　incognito；”　said　the　Frenchman；　looking　at　Pierre’s　fine；　though　dirty　linen；　and　the　ring　on　his　finger；　“I　owe　my　life　to　you；　and　I　offer　you　my　friendship。　A　Frenchman　never　forgets　an　insult　or　a　service。　I　offer　you　my　friendship。　That’s　all　I　say。”
In　the　tones　of　the　voice；　the　expression　of　the　face；　and　the　gestures　of　the　officer；　there　was　so　much　na？ve　good　nature　and　good　breeding　（in　the　French　sense）　that　Pierre　unconsciously　responded　with　a　smile　to　his　smile；　as　he　took　his　outstretched　hand。
“Captain　Ramballe　of　the　13th　Light　Brigade；　decorated　for　the　affair　of　the　7th　September；”　he　introduced　himself；　an　irrepressible　smile　of　complacency　lurking　under　his　moustache。　“Will　you　tell　me　now　to　whom　I　have　the　honour　of　speaking　so　agreeably；　instead　of　remaining　in　the　ambulance　with　that　madman’s　ball　in　my　body？”
Pierre　answered　that　he　would　not　tell　him　his　name；　and　was　beginning　with　a　blush；　while　trying　to　invent　a　name；　to　speak　of　the　reasons　for　which　he　was　unable　to　do　so；　but　the　Frenchman　hurriedly　interrupted　him。
“Enough！”　he　said。　“I　understand　your　reasons；　you　are　an　officer　…　a　staff　officer；　perhaps。　You　have　borne　arms　against　us。　That’s　not　my　business。　I　owe　you　my　life。　That’s　enough　for　me。　I　am　at　your　disposal。　You　are　a　nobleman？”　he　added；　with　an　intonation　of　inquiry。　Pierre　bowed。
“Your　baptismal　name；　if　you　please？　I　ask　nothing　more。　M。　Pierre；　you　say？　Perfect！　That’s　all　I　want　to　know。”
When　they　had　brought　in　the　mutton；　an　omelette；　a　samovar；　vodka；　and　wine　from　a　Russian　cellar　brought　with　them　by　the　French；　Ramballe　begged　Pierre　to　share　his　dinner；　and　at　once　with　the　haste　and　greediness　of　a　healthy；　hungry　man；　set　to　work　on　the　viands　himself；　munching　vigorously　with　his　strong　teeth；　and　continually　smacking　his　lips　and　exclaiming；　“Excellent！　exquis！”　His　face　became　flushed　and　perspiring。　Pierre　was　hungry；　and　pleased　to　share　the　repast。　Morel；　the　orderly；　brought　in　a　pot　of　hot　water；　and　put　a　bottle　of　red　wine　to　warm　in　it。　He　brought　in　too　a　bottle　of　kvass　from　the　kitchen　for　them　to　taste。　This　beverage　was　already　known　to　the　French；　and　had　received　a　nickname。　They　called　it　limonade　de　cochon；　and　Morel　praised　this　“pigs’　lemonade；”　which　he　had　found　in　the　kitchen。　But　as　the　captain　had　the　wine　they　had　picked　up　as　they　crossed　Moscow；　he　left　the　kvass　for　Morel；　and　attacked　the　bottle　of　bordeaux。　He　wrapped　a　napkin　round　the　bottle；　and　poured　out　wine　for　himself　and　Pierre。　The　wine；　and　the　satisfaction　of　his　hunger；　made　the　captain　even　more　lively；　and　he　chatted　away　without　a　pause　all　dinner…time。
“Yes；　my　dear　M。　Pierre；　I　owe　you　a　fine　votive　candle　for　saving　me　from　that　maniac。　I　have　bullets　enough　in　my　body；　you　know。　Here　is　one　from　Wagram”　（he　pointed　to　his　side）；　“and　two　from　Smolensk”　（he　showed　the　scar　on　his　cheek）。　“And　this　leg　which　won’t　walk；　as　you　see。　It　was　at　the　great　battle　of　la　Moskowa　on　the　7th　that　I　got　that。　Sacré　Dieu；　it　was　fine！　You　ought　to　have　seen　that；　it　was　a　deluge　of　fire。　You　cut　us　out　a　tough　job；　you　can　boast　of　that；　my　word　on　it！　And　on　my　word；　in　spite　of　the　cough　I　caught；　I　should　be　ready　to　begin　again。　I　pity　those　who　did　not　see　it。”
“I　was　there；”　said　Pierre。
“Really！”　pursued　the　Frenchman。　“Well；　so　much　the　better。　You　are　fine　enemies；　though。　The　great　redoubt　was　well　held；　by　my　pipe。　And　you　made　us　pay　heavily　for　it　too。　I　was　at　it　three　times；　as　I’m　sitting　here。　Three　times　we　were　upon　the　cannons；　and　three　times　we　were　driven　back　like　cardboard　figures。　Oh；　it　was　fine；　M。　Pierre。　Your　grenadiers　were　superb；　God’s　thunder。　I　saw　them　six　times　in　succession　close　the　ranks　and　march　as　though　on　parade。　Fine　fellows。　Our　king　of　Naples；　who　knows　all　about　it；　cried；　Bravo！　Ah；　ah；　soldiers　like　ourselves；”　he　said　after　a　moment’s　silence。　“So　much　the　better；　so　much　the　better；　M。　Pierre。　Terrible　in　war　…　gallant；　with　the　fair”　（he　winked　with　a　smile）—“there　you　have　the　French；　M。　Pierre；　eh？”
The　captain　was　so　na？vely　and　good…humouredly　gay　and　obtuse　and　self…satisfied　that　Pierre　almost　winked　in　response；　as　he　looked　good…humouredly　at　him。　Probably　the　word　“gallant”　brought　the　captain　to　reflect　on　the　state　of　things　in　Moscow。
“By　the　way；　tell　me；　is　it　true　that　all　the　women　have　left　Moscow？　What　a　queer　idea！　What　had　they　to　fear？”
“Would　not　the　French　ladies　quit　Paris；　if　the　Russians　were　to　enter　it？”　said　Pierre。
“Ha—ha—ha！…”　The　Frenchman　gave　vent　to　a　gay；　sanguine　chuckle；　slapping　Pierre　on　the　shoulder。　“That’s　a　good　one；　that　is；”　he　went　on。　“Paris　…　But　Paris…”
“Paris　is　the　capital　of　the　world；”　said　Pierre；　finishing　the　sentence　for　him。
The　captain　looked　at　Pierre。　He　had　the　habit　of　stopping　short　in　the　middle　of　conversation；　and　staring　intently　with　his　laughing　genial　eyes。
“Well；　if　you　had　not　told　me　you　are　a　Russian；　I　would　have　wagered　you　were　a　Parisian。　You　have　that　indescribable　something　…”　and　uttering　this　compliment；　he　again　gazed　at　him　mutely。
“I　have　been　in　Paris。　I　spent　years　there；”　said　Pierre。
“One　can　see　that！　Paris！　A　man　who　does　not　know　Paris　is　a　savage　…　A　Parisian　can　be　told　two　leagues　off。　Paris—it　is　Talma；　la　Duschénois；　Potier；　the　Sorbonne；　the　boulevards。”　Perceiving　that　the　conclusion　of　his　phrase　was　somewhat　of　an　anticlimax；　he　added　hurriedly；　“There　is　only　one　Paris　in　the　world。…　You　have　been　in　Paris；　and　you　remain　Russian。　Well；　I　don’t　think　the　less　of　you　for　that。”
After　the　days　he　had　spent　alone　with　his　gloomy　thoughts；　Pierre；　under　the　influence　of　the　wine　he　had　drunk；　could　not　help　taking　pleasure　in　conversing　with　this　good…humoured　and　na？ve　person。
“To　return　to　your　ladies；　they　are　said　to　be　beautiful。　What　a　silly　idea　to　go　and　bury　themselves　in　the　steppes；　when　the　French　army　is　in　Moscow。　What　a　chance　they　have　lost。　Your　peasants　are　different；　but　you　civilised　people　ought　to　know　better　than　that。　We　have　taken　Vienna；　Berlin；　Madrid；　Naples；　Rome；　Warsaw—all　the　capitals　in　the　world。　We　are　feared；　but　we　are　loved。　We　are　worth　knowing。　And　then　the　Emperor…”　he　was　beginning；　but　Pierre　interrupted　him。
“The　Emperor；”　repeated　Pierre；　and　his　face　suddenly　wore　a　mournful