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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 etes le bourgeois?"* the officer asked Gerasim.
*"Are you the master here?"
Gerasim 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 francais sont de bons enfants. Que diable! Voyons!
Ne nous fachons pas, mon vieux!"* added he, clapping the
scared and silent Gerasim 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 Gerasim and asked him to show
him the rooms in the house.
"Master, not here- don't understand... me, you..."
said Gerasim, trying to render his words more comprehensible by
contorting them.
Still smiling, the French officer spread out his hands before
Gerasim'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 Makar Alexeevich appearing at the open kitchen door with
the pistol in his hand. With a madman's cunning, Makar Alexeevich
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 Makar Alexeevich 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 Makar Alexeevich and took him by the
collar.
Makar Alexeevich 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 Makar Alexeevich 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.
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