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Having put on French greatcoats and shakos, Petya and Dolokhov
rode to the clearing from which Denisov had reconnoitered the
French camp, and emerging from the forest in pitch darkness they
descended into the hollow. On reaching the bottom, Dolokhov told
the Cossacks accompanying him to await him there and rode on at
a quick trot along the road to the bridge. Petya, his heart in
his mouth with excitement, rode by his side.
"If we're caught, I won't be taken alive! I have a pistol,"
whispered he.
"Don't talk Russian," said Dolokhov in a hurried
whisper, and at that very moment they heard through the darkness
the challenge: "Qui vive?"* and the click of a musket.
*"Who goes there?"
The blood rushed to Petya's face and he grasped his pistol.
"Lanciers du 6-me,"* replied Dolokhov, neither hastening
nor slackening his horse's pace.
*"Lancers of the 6th Regiment."
The black figure of a sentinel stood on the bridge.
"Mot d'ordre."*
*"Password."
Dolokhov reined in his horse and advanced at a walk.
"Dites donc, le colonel Gerard est ici?"* he asked.
*"Tell me, is Colonel Gerard here?"
"Mot d'ordre," repeated the sentinel, barring the
way and not replying.
"Quand un officier fait sa ronde, les sentinelles ne
demandent pas le mot d'ordre..." cried Dolokhov suddenly
flaring up and riding straight at the sentinel. "Je vous
demande si le colonel est ici."*
*"When an officer is making his round, sentinels don't
ask him for the password.... I am asking you if the colonel is
here."
And without waiting for an answer from the sentinel, who had
stepped aside, Dolokhov rode up the incline at a walk.
Noticing the black outline of a man crossing the road, Dolokhov
stopped him and inquired where the commander and officers were.
The man, a soldier with a sack over his shoulder, stopped, came
close up to Dolokhov's horse, touched it with his hand, and explained
simply and in a friendly way that the commander and the officers
were higher up the hill to the right in the courtyard of the farm,
as he called the landowner's house.
Having ridden up the road, on both sides of which French talk
could be heard around the campfires, Dolokhov turned into the
courtyard of the landowner's house. Having ridden in, he dismounted
and approached a big blazing campfire, around which sat several
men talking noisily. Something was boiling in a small cauldron
at the edge of the fire and a soldier in a peaked cap and blue
overcoat, lit up by the fire, was kneeling beside it stirring
its contents with a ramrod.
"Oh, he's a hard nut to crack," said one of the
officers who was sitting in the shadow at the other side of the
fire.
"He'll make them get a move on, those fellows!"
said another, laughing.
Both fell silent, peering out through the darkness at the
sound of Dolokhov's and Petya's steps as they advanced to the
fire leading their horses.
"Bonjour, messieurs!"* said Dolokhov loudly and
clearly.
*"Good day, gentlemen."
There was a stir among the officers in the shadow beyond the
fire, and one tall, long-necked officer, walking round the fire,
came up to Dolokhov.
"Is that you, Clement?" he asked. "Where the
devil...? But, noticing his mistake, he broke off short and, with
a frown, greeted Dolokhov as a stranger, asking what he could
do for him.
Dolokhov said that he and his companion were trying to overtake
their regiment, and addressing the company in general asked whether
they knew anything of the 6th Regiment. None of them knew anything,
and Petya thought the officers were beginning to look at him and
Dolokhov with hostility and suspicion. For some seconds all were
silent.
"If you were counting on the evening soup, you have come
too late," said a voice from behind the fire with a repressed
laugh.
Dolokhov replied that they were not hungry and must push on
farther that night.
He handed the horses over to the soldier who was stirring
the pot and squatted down on his heels by the fire beside the
officer with the long neck. That officer did not take his eyes
from Dolokhov and again asked to what regiment he belonged. Dolokhov,
as if he had not heard the question, did not reply, but lighting
a short French pipe which he took from his pocket began asking
the officer in how far the road before them was safe from Cossacks.
"Those brigands are everywhere," replied an officer
from behind the fire.
Dolokhov remarked that the Cossacks were a danger only to
stragglers such as his companion and himself, "but probably
they would not dare to attack large detachments?" he added
inquiringly. No one replied.
"Well, now he'll come away," Petya thought every
moment as he stood by the campfire listening to the talk.
But Dolokhov restarted the conversation which had dropped
and began putting direct questions as to how many men there were
in the battalion, how many battalions, and how many prisoners.
Asking about the Russian prisoners with that detachment, Dolokhov
said:
"A horrid business dragging these corpses about with
one! It would be better to shoot such rabble," and burst
into loud laughter, so strange that Petya thought the French would
immediately detect their disguise, and involuntarily took a step
back from the campfire.
No one replied a word to Dolokhov's laughter, and a French
officer whom they could not see (he lay wrapped in a greatcoat)
rose and whispered something to a companion. Dolokhov got up and
called to the soldier who was holding their horses.
"Will they bring our horses or not?" thought Petya,
instinctively drawing nearer to Dolokhov.
The horses were brought.
"Good evening, gentlemen," said Dolokhov.
Petya wished to say "Good night" but could not utter
a word. The officers were whispering together. Dolokhov was a
long time mounting his horse which would not stand still, then
he rode out of the yard at a footpace. Petya rode beside him,
longing to look round to see whether or no the French were running
after them, but not daring to.
Coming out onto the road Dolokhov did not ride back across
the open country, but through the village. At one spot he stopped
and listened. "Do you hear?" he asked. Petya recognized
the sound of Russian voices and saw the dark figures of Russian
prisoners round their campfires. When they had descended to the
bridge Petya and Dolokhov rode past the sentinel, who without
saying a word paced morosely up and down it, then they descended
into the hollow where the Cossacks awaited them.
"Well now, good-by. Tell Denisov, 'at the first shot
at daybreak,'" said Dolokhov and was about to ride away,
but Petya seized hold of him.
"Really!" he cried, "you are such a hero! Oh,
how fine, how splendid! How I love you!"
"All right, all right!" said Dolokhov. But Petya
did not let go of him and Dolokhov saw through the gloom that
Petya was bending toward him and wanted to kiss him. Dolokhov
kissed him, laughed, turned his horse, and vanished into the darkness.
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