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The fifth company was bivouacking at the very edge of the
forest. A huge campfire was blazing brightly in the midst of the
snow, lighting up the branches of trees heavy with hoarfrost.
About midnight they heard the sound of steps in the snow of
the forest, and the crackling of dry branches.
"A bear, lads," said one of the men.
They all raised their heads to listen, and out of the forest
into the bright firelight stepped two strangely clad human figures
clinging to one another.
These were two Frenchmen who had been hiding in the forest.
They came up to the fire, hoarsely uttering something in a language
our soldiers did not understand. One was taller than the other;
he wore an officer's hat and seemed quite exhausted. On approaching
the fire he had been going to sit down, but fell. The other, a
short sturdy soldier with a shawl tied round his head, was stronger.
He raised his companion and said something, pointing to his mouth.
The soldiers surrounded the Frenchmen, spread a greatcoat on the
ground for the sick man, and brought some buckwheat porridge and
vodka for both of them.
The exhausted French officer was Ramballe and the man with
his head wrapped in the shawl was Morel, his orderly.
When Morel had drunk some vodka and finished his bowl of porridge
he suddenly became unnaturally merry and chattered incessantly
to the soldiers, who could not understand him. Ramballe refused
food and resting his head on his elbow lay silent beside the campfire,
looking at the Russian soldiers with red and vacant eyes. Occasionally
he emitted a long-drawn groan and then again became silent. Morel,
pointing to his shoulders, tried to impress on the soldiers the
fact that Ramballe was an officer and ought to be warmed. A Russian
officer who had come up to the fire sent to ask his colonel whether
he would not take a French officer into his hut to warm him, and
when the messenger returned and said that the colonel wished the
officer to be brought to him, Ramballe was told to go. He rose
and tried to walk, but staggered and would have fallen had not
a soldier standing by held him up.
"You won't do it again, eh?" said one of the soldiers,
winking and turning mockingly to Ramballe.
"Oh, you fool! Why talk rubbish, lout that you are- a
real peasant!" came rebukes from all sides addressed to the
jesting soldier.
They surrounded Ramballe, lifted him on the crossed arms of
two soldiers, and carried him to the hut. Ramballe put his arms
around their necks while they carried him and began wailing plaintively:
"Oh, you fine fellows, my kind, kind friends! These are
men! Oh, my brave, kind friends," and he leaned his head
against the shoulder of one of the men like a child.
Meanwhile Morel was sitting in the best place by the fire,
surrounded by the soldiers.
Morel, a short sturdy Frenchman with inflamed and streaming
eyes, was wearing a woman's cloak and had a shawl tied woman fashion
round his head over his cap. He was evidently tipsy, and was singing
a French song in a hoarse broken voice, with an arm thrown round
the nearest soldier. The soldiers simply held their sides as they
watched him.
"Now then, now then, teach us how it goes! I'll soon
pick it up. How is it?" said the man- a singer and a wag-
whom Morel was embracing.
"Vive Henri Quatre! Vive ce roi valiant!" sang Morel,
winking. "Ce diable a quatre..."*
*"Long live Henry the Fourth, that valiant king! That
rowdy devil."
"Vivarika! Vif-seruvaru! Sedyablyaka!" repeated
the soldier, flourishing his arm and really catching the tune.
"Bravo! Ha, ha, ha!" rose their rough, joyous laughter
from all sides.
Morel, wrinkling up his face, laughed too.
"Well, go on, go on!"
"Qui eut le triple talent,
De boire, de battre,
Et d'etre un vert galant."*
*Who had a triple talent
For drinking, for fighting,
And for being a gallant old boy...
"It goes smoothly, too. Well, now, Zaletaev!"
"Ke..." Zaletaev, brought out with effort: "ke-e-e-e,"
he drawled, laboriously pursing his lips, "le-trip-ta-la-de-bu-de-ba,
e de-tra-va-ga-la " he sang.
"Fine! Just like the Frenchie! Oh, ho ho! Do you want
some more to eat?"
"Give him some porridge: it takes a long time to get
filled up after starving."
They gave him some more porridge and Morel with a laugh set
to work on his third bowl. All the young soldiers smiled gaily
as they watched him. The older men, who thought it undignified
to amuse themselves with such nonsense, continued to lie at the
opposite side of the fire, but one would occasionally raise himself
on an elbow and glance at Morel with a smile.
"They are men too," said one of them as he wrapped
himself up in his coat. "Even wormwood grows on its own root."
"O Lord, O Lord! How starry it is! Tremendous! That means
a hard frost...."
They all grew silent. The stars, as if knowing that no one
was looking at them, began to disport themselves in the dark sky:
now flaring up, now vanishing, now trembling, they were busy whispering
something gladsome and mysterious to one another.
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