战争与和平(上)-第306章

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and　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　êtes　le　bourgeois？”　the　officer　asked；　addressing　Gerasim。
Gerasim　looked　back　with　scared　inquiry　at　the　officer。
“Quartire；　quartire；　logement；”　said　the　officer；　looking　down　with　a　condescending　and　good…humoured　smile　at　the　little　man。　“The　French　are　good　lads。　Don’t　let　us　be　cross；　old　fellow；”　he　went　on　in　French；　clapping　the　scared　and　mute　Gerasim　on　the　shoulder。　“I　say；　does　no　one　speak　French　in　this　establishment？”　he　added；　looking　round　and　meeting　Pierre’s　eyes。　Pierre　withdrew　from　the　door。
The　officer　turned　again　to　Gerasim。　He　asked　him　to　show　him　over　the　house。
“Master　not　here—no　understand　…　me　you　…”　said　Gerasim；　trying　to　make　his　words　more　comprehensible　by　saying　them　in　reverse　order。
The　French　officer；　smiling；　waved　his　hands　in　front　of　Gerasim’s　nose；　to　give　him　to　understand　that　he　too　failed　to　understand　him；　and　walked　with　a　limp　towards　the　door　where　Pierre　was　standing。　Pierre　was　about　to　retreat　to　conceal　himself　from　him；　but　at　that　very　second　he　caught　sight　of　Makar　Alexyevitch　peeping　out　of　the　open　kitchen　door　with　a　pistol　in　his　hand。　With　a　madman’s　cunning；　Makar　Alexyevitch　eyed　the　Frenchmen；　and　lifting　the　pistol；　took　aim。　“Run　them　down！！！”　yelled　the　drunkard；　pressing　the　trigger。　The　French　officer　turned　round　at　the　scream；　and　at　the　same　instant　Pierre　dashed　at　the　drunken　man。　Just　as　Pierre　snatched　at　the　pistol　and　jerked　it　up；　Makar　Alexyevitch　succeeded　at　last　in　pressing　the　trigger；　and　a　deafening　shot　rang　out；　wrapping　every　one　in　a　cloud　of　smoke。　The　Frenchman　turned　pale　and　rushed　back　to　the　door。
Forgetting　his　intention　of　concealing　his　knowledge　of　French；　Pierre　pulled　away　the　pistol；　and　throwing　it　on　the　ground；　ran　to　the　officer　and　addressed　him　in　French。　“You　are　not　wounded？”　he　said。
“I　think　not；”　answered　the　officer；　feeling　himself；　“but　I　have　had　a　narrow　escape　this　time；”　he　added；　pointing　to　the　broken　plaster　in　the　wall。
“Who　is　this　man？”　he　asked；　looking　sternly　at　Pierre。
“Oh；　I　am　really　in　despair　at　what　has　happened；”　said　Pierre　quickly；　quite　forgetting　his　part。　“It　is　a　madman；　an　unhappy　creature；　who　did　not　know　what　he　was　doing。”
The　officer　went　up　to　Makar　Alexyevitch　and　took　him　by　the　collar。
Makar　Alexyevitch　pouting　out　his　lips；　nodded；　as　he　leaned　against　the　wall；　as　though　dropping　asleep。
“Brigand；　you　shall　pay　for　it；”　said　the　Frenchman；　letting　go　of　him。　“We　are　clement　after　victory；　but　we　do　not　pardon　traitors；”　he　added；　with　gloomy　dignity　in　his　face；　and　a　fine；　vigorous　gesture。
Pierre　tried　in　French　to　persuade　the　officer　not　to　be　severe　with　this　drunken　imbecile。　The　Frenchman　listened　in　silence；　with　the　same　gloomy　air；　and　then　suddenly　turned　with　a　smile　to　Pierre。　For　several　seconds　he　gazed　at　him　mutely。　His　handsome　face　assumed　an　expression　of　melodramatic　feeling；　and　he　held　out　his　hand。
“You　have　saved　my　life。　You　are　French；”　he　said。　For　a　Frenchman；　the　deduction　followed　indubitably。　An　heroic　action　could　only　be　performed　by　a　Frenchman；　and　to　save　the　life　of　him；　M。　Ramballe；　captain　of　the　13th　Light　Brigade；　was　undoubtedly　a　most　heroic　action。
But　however　indubitable　this　logic；　and　well　grounded　the　conviction　the　officer　based　on　it；　Pierre　thought　well　to　disillusion　him　on　the　subject。
“I　am　Russian；”　he　said　quickly。
“Tell　that　to　others；”　said　the　Frenchman；　smiling　and　waving　his　finger　before　his　nose。　“You　shall　tell　me　all　about　it　directly；”　he　said。　“Charmed　to　meet　a　compatriot。　Well；　what　are　we　to　do　with　this　man？”　he　added；　applying　to　Pierre　now　as　though　to　a　comrade。　If　Pierre　were　indeed　not　a　Frenchman；　he　would　hardly　on　receiving　that　appellation—the　most　honourable　in　the　world—care　to　disavow　it；　was　what　the　expression　and　tone　of　the　French　officer　suggested。　To　his　last　question　Pierre　explained　once　more　who　Makar　Alexyevitch　was。　He　explained　that　just　before　his　arrival　the　drunken　imbecile　had　carried　off　a　loaded　pistol；　which　they　had　not　succeeded　in　getting　from　him；　and　he　begged　him　to　let　his　action　go　unpunished。　The　Frenchman　arched　his　chest；　and　made　a　majestic　gesture　with　his　hand。
“You　have　saved　my　life！　You　are　a　Frenchman。　You　ask　me　to　pardon　him。　I　grant　you　his　pardon。　Let　this　man　be　released；”　the　French　officer　pronounced　with　rapidity　and　energy；　and　taking　the　arm　of　Pierre—　promoted　to　be　a　Frenchman　for　saving　his　life—he　was　walking　with　him　into　the　room。
The　soldiers　in　the　yard；　hearing　the　shot；　had　come　into　the　vestibule　to　ask　what　had　happened；　and　to　offer　their　services　in　punishing　the　offender；　but　the　officer　sternly　checked　them。
“You　will　be　sent　for　when　you　are　wanted；”　he　said。　The　soldiers　withdrew。　The　orderly；　who　had　meanwhile　been　in　the　kitchen；　came　in　to　the　officer。
“Captain；　they　have　soup　and　a　leg　of　mutton　in　the　kitchen；”　he　said。　“Shall　I　bring　it　up？”
“Yes；　and　the　wine；”　said　the　captain。


Chapter　29
AS　THE　FRENCH　OFFICER　drew　Pierre　with　him　into　the　room；　the　latter　thought　it　his　duty　to　assure　the　captain　again　that　he　was　not　a　Frenchman；　and　would　have　withdrawn；　but　the　French　officer　would　not　hear　of　it。　He　was　so　courteous；　polite；　good…humoured；　and　genuinely　grateful　to　him　for　saving　his　life　that　Pierre　had　not　the　heart　to　refuse；　and　sat　down　with　him　in　the　dining…room；　the　first　room　they　entered。　To　Pierre’s　asseveration　that　he　was　not　a　Frenchman；　the　captain；　plainly　unable　to　comprehend　how　any　one　could　refuse　so　flattering　a　title；　shrugged　his　shoulders；　and　said　that　if　he　insisted　in　passing　for　a　Russian；　so　be　it；　but　that　in　spite　of　that　he　should　yet　feel　bound　to　him　for　ever　by　sentiments　of　gratitude　for　the　defence　of　his　life。
If　this　man　had　been　endowed　with　even　the　slightest　faculty　of　perceiving　the　feelings　of　others；　and　had　had　the　faintest　inkling　of　Pierre’s　sentiments；　the　latter　would　probably　have　left　him。　But　his　lively　impenetrability　to　everything　not　himself　vanquished　Pierre。
“Frenchman　or　Russian　prince　incognito；”　said　the　Frenchman；　looking　at　Pierre’s　fine；　though　dirty　linen；　and　the　ring　on　his　finger；　“I　owe　my　life　to　you；　and　I　offer　you　my　friendship。　A　Frenchman　never　forgets　an　insult　or　a　service。　I　offer　you　my　friendship。　That’s　all　I　say。”
In　the　tones　of　the　voice；　the　expression　of　the　face；　and　the　gestures　of　the　officer；　there　was　so　much　na？ve　good　nature　and　good　breeding　（in　the　French　sense）　that　Pierre　unconsciously　responded　with　a　smile　to　his　smile；　as　he　took　his　outstretched　hand。
“Captain　Ramballe　of　the　13th　Light　Brigade；　decorated　for　the　affair　of　the　7th　September；”　he　introduced　himself；　an　irrepressible　smile　of　complacency　lurking　under　his　moustache。　“Will　you　tell　me　now　to　whom　I　have　the　honour　of　speaking　so　agreeably；　instead　of　remaining　in　the　ambulance　with　that　madman’s　ball　in　my　body？”
Pierre　answered　that　he　would　not　tell　him　his　name；　and　was　beginning　with　a　blush；　while　trying　to　invent　a　name；　to　speak　of　the　reasons　for　which　he　was　unable　to　do　so；　but　the　Frenchman　hurriedly　interrupted　him。
“Enough！”　he　said。　“I　understand　your　reasons；　you　are　an　officer　…　a　staff　officer；　perhaps。　You　have　borne　arms　against　us。　That’s　not　my　business。　I　owe　you　my　life。　That’s　enough　for　me。　I　am　at　your　disposal。　You　are　a　nobleman？”　he　added；　with