‘Yes, he is good-looking,’ thought Pierre, ‘and I know him. He would be only too delighted to drag my name through the mud and laugh at me, just because I’ve looked after him, supported him and helped him out. Yes, I can see it. I know how he would relish any betrayal of me – if it was true. Yes, if it was true, but I don’t believe it. I have no right to, and I just can’t.’ He recalled the expression on Dolokhov’s face when he was being cruel – when he had tied the policeman to the bear and dropped them in the water, when he had challenged a man to a duel for no good reason or shot a sledge-driver’s horse with his pistol. The same expression often came over Dolokhov’s face when he was looking at him. ‘Yes, he’s a cruel brute,’ thought Pierre. ‘He wouldn’t think twice about killing a man, and he must think everyone’s afraid of him. I think he likes that. He must think I’m afraid of him . . . And I am,’ Pierre mused, and as he did so he felt the thing again, something dreadful and disgusting rising up in his soul. Dolokhov, Denisov and Rostov were sitting across from Pierre and they seemed to be having a wonderful time. Rostov was chatting away animatedly with his two friends, one of them a dashing hussar, the other a holy terror and notorious philanderer, only now and then directing a sardonic glance at Pierre, who stood out in that company because of his great bulk and his vacant, worried look. Rostov had little time for Pierre. For one thing, he, the smart young hussar, saw Pierre as a rich civilian who may have married a great beauty but was still an old woman. And for another, Pierre had been too obsessed and dreamy-eyed to recognize Rostov – he hadn’t even returned his bow. When they all stood up to toast the Tsar, Pierre sat there deep in thought and didn’t even reach for his glass.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Rostov yelled across, his triumph tinged with exasperation. ‘Aren’t you listening? We’re toasting the Emperor!’
Pierre rose obediently with a sigh, drained his glass, waited for them all to be seated again and then turned to Rostov with his usual kindly smile. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you,’ he said. But Rostov was miles away, bellowing his ‘Hurrah!’
‘Aren’t you going to renew your acquaintance?’ said Dolokhov to Rostov.
‘I can’t be bothered with him. He’s an idiot,’ said Rostov.
‘Oh, you should always be nice to the husbands of pretty women,’ said Denisov. Pierre couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he knew they were talking about him. He reddened and looked away. ‘So, I propose a toast to pretty women,’ said Dolokhov, looking very serious but allowing a smile to play at the corners of his mouth as he turned to Pierre.
‘Here’s to pretty women, my dear little Pierre,’ he said. ‘And to their lovers.’
Pierre was looking down, sipping from his glass and avoiding Dolokhov’s eyes. He didn’t respond. A footman came round distributing Kutuzov’s cantata and laid a copy down by Pierre, one of the more important guests. Pierre was on the point of picking it up when Dolokhov leant across, snatched the paper out of his hand and started to read it. Pierre glanced up at Dolokhov and then down again. That terrible and disgusting feeling that had been tormenting him all through dinner surged up and overwhelmed him. He leant across the table with all the weight of his big body.
‘How dare you?’ he yelled.
Hearing the shout and seeing who he was shouting at, Nesvitsky and Pierre’s neighbour on the other side turned quickly towards Bezukhov in some alarm.
‘Sh! What do you think you’re doing?’ whispered panic-stricken voices. Dolokhov directed his clear, mocking, cruel eyes straight at Pierre, still with the same smile, as if to say, ‘I’ll do what I like.’
‘I’ve got it,’ he spelt out.
Pale, lips quivering, Pierre snatched the copy.
‘You . . . you . . . swine! . . . I challenge you,’ he said, moving his chair back and rising from the table. And as Pierre did this and pronounced these words he suddenly realized that the question of his wife’s guilt that had been tormenting him for twenty-four hours had been settled once and for all – in the affirmative. He hated her now. They were finished – for ever. Despite Denisov’s protestations that he ought not to get involved, Rostov agreed to be Dolokhov’s second, and when dinner was over he discussed the terms of the duel with Nesvitsky, Bezukhov’s second. Pierre went home, but Rostov, along with Dolokhov and Denisov, stayed on at the club until late at night listening to the gypsies and the singers.
‘Good night then. I’ll see you tomorrow at Sokolniki,’ said Dolokhov as he parted from Rostov on the steps of the club.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Rostov.
Dolokhov stopped.
