Their conversation was interrupted by voices from the gate, followed by Morel coming in to tell the captain some Württemberg hussars had arrived and they wanted to put up their horses in the yard where the captain’s were already put up. The worst thing was that the hussars couldn’t understand what was being said to them.
The captain sent for the senior NCO and asked him sternly which regiment he belonged to, who his commanding officer was, and on what basis he allowed himself to start taking over quarters that were already occupied. He was a German who knew very little French, and although he managed answers to the first two questions, he replied to the last one, which he hadn’t understood, in a mixture of broken French and German, saying that he was quartermaster of his regiment, acting under orders from his superior officer to occupy all the houses one after another. Pierre was a German-speaker, and he translated the German’s words for the captain, and then translated the captain’s response for the benefit of the Württemberg hussar. Once he understood what was being said to him, the German gave way and went off with his men.
The captain went out to the entrance and barked out a few orders.
When he came back in Pierre was sitting in the same place, with his hands clasped around his head. His face was a picture of anguish. He really was going through it at that moment. The moment the captain had gone out and Pierre had been left alone, he suddenly came to and realized what a situation he was now in. It wasn’t just that Moscow had been taken, or that these lucky conquerors were making themselves at home and patronizing him, that tormented him at that time, painful though all this was in itself. He was tormented by a sudden awareness of his own weakness. One or two glasses of wine and a chat with this genial man had destroyed the mood of sombre concentration he had been living in for the last few days, and this mood was essential to him if he was going to carry out his mission. His things were ready, the pistol, the dagger and the peasant’s coat. Napoleon was making his entry tomorrow. Pierre felt just as convinced it would be the right and proper thing to do to slay this villain, but he now had the feeling he was not going to do it. Why not? He didn’t know – it was just a vague presentiment that he wasn’t going to carry out his mission. He was fighting against this awareness of his own weakness, knowing somehow he wasn’t going to overcome it, and his dark ideas of yesterday – vengeance, murder and self-sacrifice – had been blown away like dust at the first contact with another human being.
The captain came back in, limping a little and whistling to himself.
The Frenchman’s chatter that Pierre had found so amusing now seemed revolting. His whistling, his walk, and his way of twirling his moustache all seemed like an insult to Pierre now.
‘I’ll go. I won’t say another word to him,’ thought Pierre. He may have thought this, but he still sat there, transfixed by a strange feeling of weakness. He longed to get up and go, but he couldn’t do it.
The captain, by contrast, seemed in high spirits. He paced the room a couple of times. There was a gleam in his eye and a slight twitch in his moustache as if he was smiling to himself at some secret joke.
‘Charming fellow, the colonel of these Württembergers,’ he blurted out. ‘He’s German, but a good fellow if ever there was one. Still, he is German.’
He sat down facing Pierre.
‘By the way, I see you’re a German-speaker.’
Pierre looked at him in silence.
‘What’s the German for “shelter”?’
‘Shelter?’ parroted Pierre. ‘Shelter in German is
‘Say again.’ The captain spoke quickly and doubtfully.
‘
‘
‘Oh well, another bottle of this Moscow claret, eh? Morel, warm us another bottle! Morel!’ the captain shouted cheerily.
Morel came in with candles and another bottle of wine. The captain glanced at Pierre in the candle light, and was visibly struck by the look of anguish on his companion’s face. Ramballe came over to Pierre and bent towards him with all the appearance of genuine sympathy and regret.
‘Oh dear, we are looking gloomy!’ he said, touching Pierre on the arm. ‘Have I offended you in some way? No, tell me, please, have you anything to hold against me?’ He was full of questions. ‘Maybe it’s just the present situation?’
Pierre said nothing, but he looked warmly into the Frenchman’s eyes. He liked his display of sympathy.
‘My word of honour, apart from being in your debt, I feel we are friends. Is there anything I can do for you? I am yours to command. In life and death. I say so hand on heart,’ he said, slapping himself on the chest.
