Over everything, over all objects near and far, lay that magical, crystal- <;ar brightness, which is only seen at that time in the autumn. In the (stance could be seen the Sparrow Plills, with the village, the church, ; d the great white house. And the leafless trees, and the sand and the :)nes and roofs of the houses, the green spire of the church, and the < gles of the white house in the distance, all stood out in the most delicate (tlines with unnatural distinctness in the limpid air. Close at hand stood ie familiar ruins of a half-burnt mansion, occupied by French soldiers, ' th lilac bushes still dark-green by the fence. And even this charred and
ruined house, which looked revoltingly hideous in bad weather, had
sort of soothing comeliness in the clear, still brightness.
A French corporal, in a smoking-cap, with his coat comfortably u buttoned, came round the corner of the shed, with a short pipe betwe his teeth, and with a friendly wink, approached Pierre.
‘What sunshine, hein, M. Kiril?’ (This was what all the French sc diers called Pierre.) ‘One would say it was spring.’ And the corpoi leaned against the door, and offered Pierre his pipe, though he was £ ways offering it, and Pierre always declined it.
‘If one were marching in weather like this,’ he began.
Pierre questioned him what he had heard of the departure of t French, and the corporal told him that almost all the troops were settii out, and that to-day instructions were expected in regard to the prisonei In the shed in which Pierre was, one of the Russian soldiers, Sokolov, w dangerously ill, and Pierre told the corporal that something ought to done about this soldier. The corporal said that Pierre might set his mil at rest, that they had both travelling and stationary hospitals for su« cases, that instructions would be given in regard to the sick, and that fact every possible contingency was provided for by the authoritic
‘And then, M. Kiril, you have only to say a word to the captain, yi know. Oh, he is a man who never forgets anything. Speak to the capta when he makes his round; he will do anything for you.’
The captain of whom the corporal spoke used often to have long co versations with Pierre, and did him all kinds of favours.
‘ “You see, St. Thomas,” he said to me the other day, “Kiril is man of education, who speaks French; he is a Russian lord who has h; troubles, but he is a man. And he understands ... If he wants an thing, let him tell me, he shall not meet with a refusal. When one h studied, one likes education, you see, and well-bred people.” It’s for yo own sake I tell you that, M. Kiril. In the affair that happened the oth day, if it hadn’t been for you, things would have ended badly.’
(The corporal was alluding to a fight a few days before between tj prisoners and the French soldiers, in which Pierre had succeeded pacifying his companions.) After chatting a little time longer the corpoi went away.
Several of the prisoners had heard Pierre talking to the corporal, a they came up immediately to ask what the latter had said. While Piei was telling his companions what the corporal had said about setting < from Moscow, a thin, sallow, ragged French soldier came up to the do of the shed. With a shy and rapid gesture he put his fingers to his for head by way of a salute, and addressing Pierre, asked him if the soldi', Platoche, who was making a shirt for him, were in this shed.
The French soldiers had been provided with linen and leather a we. previously, and had given out the materials to the Russian prisoners • make them boots and shirts.
‘It’s ready, darling, it’s ready! ’ said Karataev, coming out with a car fully folded shirt. On account of the heat and for greater convenience i
working, Karataev was wearing nothing but a pair of drawers and a attered shirt, as black as the earth. He had tied a wisp of bast round his air, as workmen do, and his round face looked rounder and more leasing than ever.
‘Punctuality is own brother to good business. I said Friday, and so I ave done it,’ said Platon, smiling and displaying the shirt he had made.
The Frenchman looked about him uneasily, and as though overcoming ome hesitation, rapidly slipped off his uniform and put on the shirt, finder his uniform he had no shirt, but a long, greasy, flowered silk waist- oat next his bare, yellow, thin body. The Frenchman was evidently fraid that the prisoners, who were looking at him, would laugh at him, nd he made haste to put his head through the shirt. None of the pris- ners said a word. ‘To be sure, it fits well,’ Platon observed, pulling the hirt down. The Frenchman, after putting his head and arms through, , ooked down at the shirt, and examined the stitching without lifting his yes.
‘Well, darling, this isn’t a tailor’s, you know, and I had no proper ewing materials, and there’s a saying without the right tool you can’t ven kill a louse properly,’ said Karataev, still admiring his own handi- vork.
