Rostov, like the whole army indeed, was far from having passed through that revolution of feeling in regard to Napoleon and the French—transforming them from foes into friends—that had taken place at headquarters and in Boris. In the army every one was still feeling the same mingled hatred, fear, and contempt for Bonaparte and the French. Only recently Rostov had argued with an officer of Platov’s Cossacks the question whether if Napoleon was taken prisoner he was to be treated as an emperor or as a criminal. Only a little while previously Rostov had met a wounded French colonel on the road, and had maintained to him with heat that there could be no peace concluded between a legitimate emperor and the criminal Bonaparte. Consequently it struck Rostov as strange to see French officers in Boris’s quarters wearing the uniforms at which he was used to looking with very different eyes from the line of pickets. As soon as he caught sight of a French officer, that feeling of war, of hostility, which he always experienced at the sight of the enemy, came upon him at once. He stood still on the threshold and asked in Russian whether Drubetskoy lived there. Boris, hearing a strange voice in the passage, went out to meet him. For the first moment when he recognised Rostov, his face betrayed his annoyance.
“Ah, that’s you, very glad, very glad to see you,” he said, however, smiling and moving towards him. But Rostov had detected his first impulse.
“I have come at a bad time, it seems,” said he; “I shouldn’t have come, but it’s on a matter of importance,” he said coldly.…
“No, I was only surprised at your getting away from the regiment. I will be with you in a moment,” he said in reply to a voice calling him.
“I see I have come at a bad time,” repeated Rostov.
The expression of annoyance had by now vanished from Boris’s face; evidently having reflected and made up his mind how to act, he took him by both hands with marked composure and led him into the next room. Boris’s eyes, gazing serenely and unflinchingly at Rostov, seemed as it were veiled by something, as though a sort of screen—the blue spectacles of conventional life—had been put over them. So it seemed to Rostov.
“Oh, please, don’t talk nonsense, as if you could come at a wrong time,” said Boris. Boris led him into a room where supper was laid, introduced him to his guests, mentioning his name, and explaining that he was not a civilian, but an officer in the hussars, and his old friend. “Count Zhilinsky, Count N. N., Captain S. S.,” he said, naming his guests. Rostov looked frowning at the Frenchmen, bowed reluctantly, and was mute.
Zhilinsky was obviously not pleased to receive this unknown Russian outsider into his circle, and said nothing to Rostov. Boris appeared not to notice the constraint produced by the newcomer, and with the same amiable composure and the same veiled look in his eyes with which he had welcomed Rostov, he endeavoured to enliven the conversation. With characteristic French courtesy one of the French officers turned to Rostov, as he sat in stubborn silence, and said to him that he had probably come to Tilsit to see the Emperor.
“No, I came on business,” was Rostov’s short reply. Rostov had been out of humour from the moment when he detected the dissatisfaction on the face of Boris, and as is always the case with persons who are ill-humoured, it seemed to him that every one looked at him with hostile eyes, and that he was in every one’s way. And in fact he was in every one’s way, and he was the only person left out of the general conversation, as it sprang up again. And what is he sitting on here for？ was the question asked by the eyes of the guests turned upon him. He got up and went up to Boris.
“I’m in your way, though,” he said to him in an undertone; “let us have a talk about my business, and I’ll go away.”
“Oh, no, not the least,” said Boris. “But if you are tired, come to my room and lie down and rest.”
“Well, really…”
They went into the little room where Boris slept. Rostov, without sitting down, began speaking at once with irritation—as though Boris were in some way to blame in the matter. He told him of Denisov’s scrape, asking whether he would and could through his general intercede with the Emperor in Denisov’s favour, and through him present the letter. When they were alone together, Rostov was for the first time distinctly aware that he felt an awkwardness in looking Boris in the face. Boris crossing one leg over the other, and stroking the slender fingers of his right hand with his left, listened to Rostov, as a general listens to a report presented by a subordinate, at one time looking away, at the next looking Rostov straight in the face with the same veiled look in his eyes. Every time he did so, Rostov felt ill at ease, and dropped his eyes.
“I have heard of affairs of the sort, and I know that the Emperor is very severe in such cases. I think it had better not be taken before his majesty. To my mind, it would be better to apply directly to the commander of the corps.… But generally speaking, I believe…”
“Then you don’t care to do anything, so say so！” Rostov almost shouted, not looking Boris in the face.
Boris smiled.
“On the contrary, I will do what I can, only I imagine…”
At that moment they heard the voice of Zhilinsky at the door, calling Boris.
“Well, go along, go, go…” said Rostov, and refusing supper and remaining alone in the little room, he walked up and down for a long while, listening to the light-hearted French chatter in the next room.
