“Well， if you had not told me you are a Russian， I would have wagered you were a Parisian. You have that indescribable something …” and uttering this compliment， he again gazed at him mutely.
“I have been in Paris. I spent years there，” said Pierre.
“One can see that！ Paris！ A man who does not know Paris is a savage … A Parisian can be told two leagues off. Paris—it is Talma， la Duschénois， Potier， the Sorbonne， the boulevards.” Perceiving that the conclusion of his phrase was somewhat of an anticlimax， he added hurriedly， “There is only one Paris in the world.… You have been in Paris， and you remain Russian. Well， I don’t think the less of you for that.”
After the days he had spent alone with his gloomy thoughts， Pierre， under the influence of the wine he had drunk， could not help taking pleasure in conversing with this good-humoured and na？ve person.
“To return to your ladies， they are said to be beautiful. What a silly idea to go and bury themselves in the steppes， when the French army is in Moscow. What a chance they have lost. Your peasants are different； but you civilised people ought to know better than that. We have taken Vienna， Berlin， Madrid， Naples， Rome， Warsaw—all the capitals in the world. We are feared， but we are loved. We are worth knowing. And then the Emperor…” he was beginning， but Pierre interrupted him.
“The Emperor，” repeated Pierre， and his face suddenly wore a mournful and embarrassed look. “What of the Emperor？”
“The Emperor？ He is generosity， mercy， justice， order， genius—that is the Emperor. It is I， Ramballe， who tell you that. I was his enemy eight years ago. My father was an emigrant count. But he has conquered me， that man. He has taken hold of me. I could not resist the spectacle of the greatness and glory with which he was covering France. When I understood what he wanted， when I saw he was preparing a bed of laurels for us， I said to myself： ‘That is a monarch.’ And I gave myself up to him. Oh yes， he is the greatest man of the centuries， past and to come.”
“And is he in Moscow？” Pierre asked， hesitating and looking guilty.
The Frenchman gazed at Pierre’s guilty face， and grinned.
“No， he will make his entry to-morrow，” he said， and went on with his talk.
Their conversation was interrupted by several voices shouting at the gates， and Morel coming in to tell the captain that some Würtemberg hussars had come and wanted to put up their horses in the yard in which the captain’s had been put up. The difficulty arose chiefly from the hussars not understanding what was said to them.
The captain bade the senior sergeant be brought to him， and in a stern voice asked him to what regiment he belonged， who was his commanding officer， and on what pretext he dared attempt to occupy quarters already occupied. The German， who knew very little French， succeeded in answering the first two questions， but in reply to the last one， which he did not understand， he answered in broken French and German that he was quartermaster of the regiment， and had received orders from his superior officer to occupy all the houses in the row. Pierre， who knew German， translated the German’s words to the captain， and translated the captain’s answer back for the Würtemberg hussar. On understanding what was said to him， the German gave in， and took his men away.
The captain went out to the entrance and gave some loud commands.
When he came back into the room， Pierre was sitting where he had been sitting before， with his head in his hands. His face expressed suffering. He really was at that moment suffering. As soon as the captain had gone out， and Pierre had been left alone， he suddenly came to himself， and recognised the position he was in. It was not that Moscow had been taken， not that these lucky conquerors were making themselves at home there and patronising him， bitterly as Pierre felt it， that tortured him at that moment. He was tortured by the consciousness of his own weakness. The few glasses of wine he had drunk， the chat with this good-natured fellow， had dissipated that mood of concentrated gloom， which he had been living in for the last few days， and which was essential for carrying out his design. The pistol and the dagger and the peasant’s coat were ready， Napoleon was making his entry on the morrow. Pierre felt it as praiseworthy and as beneficial as ever to slay the miscreant； but he felt now that he would not do it. He struggled against the consciousness of his own weakness， but he vaguely felt that he could not overcome it， that his past gloomy train of ideas， of vengeance， murder， and self-sacrifice， had been blown away like dust at contact with the first human being.
The captain came into the room， limping a little， and whistling some tune.
The Frenchman’s chatter that had amused Pierre struck him now as revolting. And his whistling a tune， and his gait， and his gesture in twisting his moustaches， all seemed insulting to Pierre now.
“I’ll go away at once， I won’t say another word to him，” thought Pierre. He thought this， yet went on sitting in the same place. Some strange feeling of weakness riveted him to his place； he longed to get up and go， and could not.
The captain， on the contrary， seemed in exceedingly good spirits. He walked a couple of times up and down the room. His eyes sparkled and his moustaches slightly twitched as though he were smiling to himself at some amusing notion.
“Charming fellow the colonel of these Würtembergers，” he said all at once. “He’s a German， but a good fellow if ever there was one. But a German.”
He sat down facing Pierre.
“By the way， you know German？”
Pierre looked at him in silence.
“How do you say ‘asile’ in German？”
“Asile？” repeated Pierre. “Asile in German is Unterkunft.”
“What do you say？” the captain queried quickly and doubtfully.
“Unterkunft，” repeated Pierre.
“Onterkoff，” said the captain， and for several seconds he looked at Pierre with his laughing eyes. “The Germans are awful fools， aren’t they， M. Pierre？” he concluded.
