But as soon as the butler had gone Pierre picked up his hat, which was lying on the table, and left by the other door. He found no one in the corridor. Pierre walked the whole length of the corridor to the staircase and went down as far as the first landing, frowning and rubbing his forehead with both hands. The hall porter was standing by the front door. But there was another staircase leading down from the landing to the back entrance. Pierre went down the back stairs and out into the yard. He had not been seen. But once outside, the moment he got to the gate the drivers standing by their carriages and the gate porter saw the master coming and doffed their caps. Aware of their scrutiny, Pierre behaved like an ostrich sticking its head in a bush to avoid being seen; bowing his head and quickening his pace, he hurried away down the street.
Of all the business waiting for Pierre’s attention that morning the task of sorting out Osip Bazdeyev’s books and papers seemed more urgent than anything else.
He hailed the first cab that came along and told the driver to take him to Patriarch’s Ponds, where Bazdeyev’s widow lived.
With his eyes glued on the lines of loaded carts coming from all directions and trundling out of Moscow, Pierre felt as happy as a truant schoolboy as he braced his big frame to make sure he didn’t fall out of the rickety old droshky and chatted away to his driver.
The driver told him they were issuing arms in the Kremlin, and tomorrow they were sending everybody out through the Three Hills gate, and there was going to be a terrific battle.
When he got to Patriarch’s Ponds, Pierre managed to rediscover Bazdeyev’s house, which he hadn’t visited for some time. There was the little garden gate. It was Gerasim, the same little sallow-skinned, beardless old man Pierre had seen with Bazdeyev five years before at Torzhok, who answered his knock.
‘Anybody in?’ asked Pierre.
‘Owing to present circumstances, Madame Bazdeyev and her children have gone to the country house at Torzhok, sir.’
‘I’d still like to come in. I want to look through the books,’ said Pierre.
‘Yes sir, you are most welcome,’ said the old servant. ‘Makar Alekseyevich, the brother of my late master, God rest his soul, has stayed on, but he’s not too strong, your Honour.’
Pierre knew full well that Bazdeyev’s brother, Makar, was a drunken half-wit.
‘Yes, I know about that. Come on, let’s go in,’ said Pierre, and he went inside. There in the vestibule stood a tall, bald-headed old man in a dressing-gown, with a red nose and galoshes on his bare feet. When he saw Pierre he muttered something irritably and walked off down a corridor.
‘He had a fine mind once, but you can see he’s not as strong as he was, your Honour,’ said Gerasim. ‘Would you care to go into the study?’ Pierre nodded. ‘It’s been sealed up, and nothing has been touched. Madame Bazdeyev gave orders that if you sent for the books I was to let them go.’
Pierre went into the gloomy study which he had entered with such trepidation when his benefactor was still alive. Untouched since the death of Bazdeyev, it was now thick with dust, and gloomier than ever.
Gerasim opened one of the shutters, and tiptoed out. Pierre took a walk round the room, and then went over to a cupboard where the manuscripts were kept, and took one lot out. It was something of great importance that had been one of the most sacred treasures of their order: a set of original Scotch Acts with Bazdeyev’s notes and commentaries. He sat down at the dusty desk, laid out the manuscripts, opened them up and closed them again before pushing them to one side. With his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands he sat there thinking.
Gerasim peeped in cautiously several times only to see Pierre sitting always in the same position.
More than two hours passed. Gerasim ventured to make a little noise from the doorway to get Pierre’s attention. Pierre didn’t hear him.
‘Sir, should I let the driver go?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Pierre, rousing himself and starting to his feet. ‘Listen,’ he added, taking Gerasim by one of the buttons on his coat and looking down at the little old man with moist eyes that were glinting with excitement. ‘Listen. You know tomorrow there’s going to be a battle . . .’
‘I have heard tell . . .’ answered Gerasim.
‘Please don’t tell anybody who I am. And do what I say . . .’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ said Gerasim. ‘Can I get you something to eat, sir?’
‘No, but I do want something else. I want some peasant clothing and a pistol,’ said Pierre, suddenly colouring up.
‘Oh yes, sir,’ said Gerasim, after a moment’s thought.
Pierre spent the whole day alone in his benefactor’s study. Gerasim could hear him pacing restlessly up and down, and talking to himself. He spent the night there too, on a bed specially made up for him.
