Rostov felt so awkward and embarrassed with his old friend that when Boris peeped in at him after supper he pretended to be asleep, and next morning he left early to avoid seeing him. In tail-coat and round hat Nikolay strolled round the town, staring at the French and their uniforms, and taking in the streets and the houses where the Russian and the French Emperors were staying. In the town square he watched as people began setting up tables and preparing for the banquet; he saw banners draped across the streets showing the Russian and French colours, and the letters A and N in huge monograms. There were flags and monograms in all the windows too.
‘Boris isn’t keen to help, and I don’t want him to. That’s settled then,’ thought Nikolay. ‘We’re finished, but I’m not leaving here without doing everything I can for Denisov, and above all getting this letter through to the Emperor. The Emperor? . . . He’s here!’ thought Rostov, who had unconsciously found his way back to the house where Alexander was staying.
Saddled horses were standing at the entrance, and the entourage was assembling; clearly the Emperor would soon be setting off.
‘Any minute now I might see him,’ thought Rostov. ‘If only I could give him the letter myself and talk to him about it . . . I can’t be arrested for not being in uniform, can I? Surely not. He’d see the rights and wrongs of it. He understands everything. He knows everything. Is there anyone fairer and more gracious? And even if I did get arrested just for being here, so what?’ he thought as he watched an officer climb the steps and go into the house where the Emperor was staying. ‘Look, there are people going in and out. Oh! This is stupid. I’m going in and I’ll give him the letter myself. Hard luck on Drubetskoy – he’s driven me to it.’ And then, with a sudden determination he didn’t know he was capable of, Rostov walked straight into the house where the Emperor was staying, fingering the letter in his pocket.
‘No, I can’t miss this chance, not after Austerlitz,’ he thought, expecting to meet the Emperor any minute and feeling his heart surge with blood at the very idea. ‘I shall fall at his feet and implore him. He will raise me up, hear what I have to say and thank me.’ ‘I am always happy to do good, but to right a wrong is the greatest happiness,’ Rostov could hear him saying. Curious eyes were upon him as he climbed the steps. At the top he saw a broad staircase leading straight up to a landing with a closed door on the right hand side. Below, under the stairs, was a door leading to the ground-floor rooms.
‘Whom do you wish to see?’ someone asked him.
‘I have a letter. An appeal to his Majesty,’ said Nikolay with a quavering voice.
‘An appeal. You need the duty officer. This way, please.’ (He motioned to the downstairs door.) ‘Only it won’t be accepted.’
At the sound of these casual words Rostov suddenly felt panic-stricken at what he was doing. The idea of meeting the Emperor at any moment was so wonderful that it scared him stiff, and he might have made a bolt for it but for an attendant who now came forward and opened the duty officer’s door for him. Rostov went in.
There in the room stood a short, stout man of about thirty, dressed in white trousers, high boots and a cambric shirt which he seemed to have only just put on. A valet stood behind him buttoning his splendid new silk-embroidered braces, which made a strong impact on Rostov, though he couldn’t have said why. The stout man was talking to someone in the next room.
‘Good figure, and fiendishly pretty,’ he was saying, but when he saw Rostov he stopped and frowned.
‘What do you want? An appeal?’
‘What is it?’ asked someone from the next room.
‘It’s another appeal,’ answered the man in the braces.
‘Tell him to come back later. He’ll be coming out any minute. We have to go.’
‘Come back later, tomorrow. You’re too late . . .’
Rostov turned to leave, but the man in the braces stopped him.
‘Who is it from? Who are you?’
‘It’s from Major Denisov,’ answered Rostov.
‘Who are you – an officer?’
‘A lieutenant, Count Rostov.’
‘Damned cheek! Send it through the proper channels. Now get out . . . go away . . .’ And he began putting on the uniform handed to him by the valet.
Rostov went out into the hall again, and saw there were lots of officers and generals in full dress uniform at the top of the steps, and he would have to walk right past them.
Cursing his own temerity and almost fainting away at the thought of meeting the Emperor at any minute and suffering the humiliation of being arrested before his very eyes, Rostov now saw the total folly of his bad behaviour, which he thoroughly regretted, and he was just squeezing through the splendidly attired entourage all round the front of the house, his eyes looking down at the ground, when a familiar voice called out to him, and a hand stopped him.
‘Well, sir, what might you be doing here out of uniform?’ asked a deep voice.
