Pierre’s physical state, as is always the case, corresponded with his noral condition.The coarse faretowhichhewas unused,thevodkahedrank luring those days, the lack of wine and cigars, his dirty, unchanged linen, nd two half-sleepless nights, spent on a short sofa without bedding, all re- luced Pierre to a state of nervous irritability bordering on madness.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon. The French had already entered doscow. Pierre knew this, but instead of acting, he only brooded over his nterprise, going over all the minutest details of it. In his dreams Pierre lever clearly pictured the very act of striking the blow, nor the death of Napoleon, but with extraordinary vividness and mournful enjoyment iwelt on his own end and his heroic fortitude.
‘Yes, one man for all, I must act or perish!’ he thought. ‘Yes, I will pproach . . . and then all at once . . . with a pistol or a dagger!’ hought Pierre. ‘But that doesn’t matter. It’s not I but the Hand of ’rovidence punishes you. ... I shall say’ (Pierre pondered over the iVords he would utter as he killed Napoleon). ‘Well, take me, execute ,ne!’ Pierre would murmur to himself, bowing his head with a sad but irm expression on his face.
While Pierre was standing in the middle of the room, musing in this ashion, the door of the study opened, and Makar Alexyevitch—always litherto so timid—appeared in the doorway, completely transformed.
Ssc WAR AND PEACE
Iiis dressing-gown was hanging open. His face was red and distorted \ He was unmistakably drunk. On seeing Pierre he was for the first minute disconcerted, but observing discomfiture in Pierre’s face too, he was at once emboldened by it; and with his thin, tottering legs walked into the middle of the room.
‘They have grown fearful,’ he said, in a husky and confidential voice, ‘I say: I will not surrender, I say ... eh, sir?’ He paused and suddenly catching sight of the pistol on the table, snatched it with surprising rapidity and ran out into the corridor.
Gerasim and the porter, who had followed Makar Alexyevitch, stopped him in the vestibule, and tried to get the pistol away from him. Pierre coming out of the study looked with repugnance and compassion at the half-insane old man. Makar Alexyevitch, frowning with effort, succeeded in keeping the pistol, and was shouting in a husky voice, evidently imagining some heroic scene.
‘To arms! Board them! You shan’t get it!’ he was shouting.
‘Give over, please, give over. Do me the favour, sir, please be quiet, There now, if you please, sir, . . .’ Gerasim was saying, cautiously trying to steer Makar Alexyevitch by his elbows towards the door.
‘Who are you? Bonaparte! . . .’ yelled Makar Alexyevitch.
‘That’s not the thing, sir. You come into your room and rest a little, Let me have the pistol now.’
‘Away, base slave! Don’t touch me! Do you see?’ screamed Makai Alexyevitch, brandishing the pistol. ‘Run them down!’
‘Take hold!’ Gerasim whispered to the porter.
They seized Makar Alexyevitch by the arms and dragged him towards the door.
The vestibule was filled with the unseemly sounds of scuffling and drunken, husky gasping.
Suddenly a new sound, a shrill, feminine shriek, was heard from the porch, and the cook ran into the vestibule.
‘They! Merciful heavens! . . . My goodness, here they are! Four of them, horsemen!’ she screamed.
Gerasim and the porter let Makar Alexyevitch go, and in the hush that followed in the corridor they could distinctly hear several hands knocking at the front door.
XXVIII
Having inwardly resolved that until the execution of his design, he ought to disguise his station and his knowledge of French, Pierre stood at the half-open door into the corridor, intending to conceal himself at once as soon as the French entered. But the French entered, and Pierre did not leave the door; an irresistible curiosity kept him there.
There were two of them. One—an officer, a tall, handsome man of gallant bearing; the other, obviously a soldier or officer’s servant, a squat, thin, sunburnt man, with hollow cheeks and a dull expression. The officer
walked first, limping and leaning on a stick. After advancing a few steps, the officer, apparently making up his mind that these would be good quarters, stopped, turned round and shouted in a loud, peremptory voice to the soldiers standing in the doorway to put up the horses. Having done this the officer, with a jaunty gesture, crooking his elbow high in the air, stroked his moustaches and put his hand to his hat.
‘Bonjour, la compagnie!’ he said gaily, smiling and looking about him.
No one made any reply.
‘Vous etes le bourgeois?’ the officer asked, addressing Gerasim.
| Gerasim looked back with scared inquiry at the officer.
