ANATOLE had lately moved into Dolohov's quarters. The plan for the abduction of Natasha Rostov had been all planned out and prepared several days before by Dolohov, and on the day when Sonya had listened at Natasha's door and resolved to protect her, that plan was to be put into execution. Natasha had promised to come out to Kuragin at the back entrance at ten o'clock in the evening. Kuragin was to get her into a sledge that was to be all ready with three horses in it, and to drive her off sixty versts from Moscow to the village of Kamenka, where an unfrocked priest was in readiness to perform a marriage ceremony over them. At Kamenka a relay of horses was to be in readiness, which was to take them as far as the Warsaw road, and thence they were to hasten abroad by means of post-horses.
Anatole had a passport and an order for post-horses and ten thousand roubles borrowed from his sister, and ten thousand more raised by the assistance of Dolohov.
The two witnesses of the mock marriage ceremony—Hvostikov, once a petty official, a man of whom Dolohov made use at cards, and Makarin, a retired hussar, a weak and good-natured man, whose devotion to Kuragin was unbounded—were sitting over their tea in the outer room.
In Dolohov's big study, decorated from the walls to the ceiling with Persian rugs, bearskins, and weapons, Dolohov was sitting in a travelling tunic and high boots in front of an open bureau on which lay accounts and bundles of bank notes. Anatole, in an unbuttoned uniform, was walking to and fro from the room where the witnesses were sitting through the study into a room behind, where his French valet with some other servants was packing up the last of his belongings. Dolohov was reckoning up money and noting down sums.
“Well,” he said, “you will have to give Hvostikov two thousand.”
“Well, give it him then,” said Anatole.
“Makarka now” (their name for Makarin), “he would go through fire and water for you with nothing to gain by it. Well, here then, our accounts are finished,” said Dolohov, showing him the paper. “That's all right?”
“Yes, of course, it's all right,” said Anatole, evidently not attending to Dolohov, and looking straight before him with a smile that never left his face.
Dolohov shut the bureau with a slam, and turned to Anatole with a ironical smile.
“But I say, you drop it all; there's still time!” he said.
“Idiot!” said Anatole. “Leave off talking rubbish. If only you knew.… Devil only knows what this means to me!”
“You'd really better drop it,” said Dolohov. “I'm speaking in earnest. It's no joking matter this scheme of yours.”
“Why, teasing again, again? Go to the devil! Eh.…” said Anatole, frowning. “Really, I'm in no humour for your stupid jokes.” And he went out of the room.
Dolohov smiled a contemptuous and supercilious smile when Anatole had gone.
“Wait a bit,” he called after Anatole. “I'm not joking. I'm in earnest. Come here, come here!”
Anatole came back into the room, and trying to concentrate his attention, looked at Dolohov, obviously obeying him unwillingly.
“Listen to me. I'm speaking to you for the last time. What should I want to joke with you for? Have I ever thwarted you? Who was it arranged it all for you? Who found your priest? Who took your passport? Who got you your money? It has all been my doing.”
“Well, and thank you for it. Do you suppose I'm not grateful?” Anatole sighed and embraced Dolohov.
“I have helped you; but still I ought to tell you the truth: it's a dangerous business, and if you come to think of it, it's stupid. Come, you carry her off, well and good. Do you suppose they'll let it rest? It will come out that you are married. Why, they will have you up on a criminal charge, you know …”
“Oh, nonsense, nonsense!” said Anatole, frowning again. “Why, didn't I explain to you? Eh?” and Anatole, with that peculiar partiality (common in persons of dull brain), for any conclusion to which they have been led by their own mental processes, repeated the argument he had repeated a hundred times over to Dolohov already. “Why, I explained it, I settled that. If this marriage is invalid,” he said, crooking his finger, “then it follows I'm not answerable for it. Well, and if it is valid, it won't matter. No one will ever know of it abroad, so, you see, it's all right, isn't it? And don't talk to me; don't talk to me; don't talk to me!”
“Really, you drop it. You'll get yourself into a mess …”
“You go to the devil!” said Anatole, and clutching at his hair he went off into the next room, but at once returning he sat with his legs up on an arm-chair close to Dolohov and facing him. “Devil only knows what's the matter with me! Eh? See how it beats.” He took Dolohov's hand and put it on his heart. “Ah, what a foot, my dear boy, what a glance! A goddess!” he said in French. “Eh?”
Dolohov, with a cold smile and a gleam in his handsome impudent eyes, looked at him, obviously disposed to get a little more amusement out of him.
“Well, your money will be gone, what then?”
“What then? Eh?” repeated Anatole, with genuine perplexity at the thought of the future. “What then? I don't know what then … Come, why talk nonsense?” He looked at his watch. “It's time!”
Anatole went into the back room.
“Well, will you soon have done? You're dawdling there,” he shouted at the servants.
Dolohov put away the money; and calling a servant to give him orders about getting something to eat and drink before the journey, he went into the room where Hvostikov and Makarin were sitting.
Anatole lay down on the sofa in the study, and, propped on his elbows, smiled pensively and murmured something fervently to himself.
“Come and have something to eat. Here, have a drink!” Dolohov shouted to him from the other room.
“I don't want to,” answered Anatole, still smiling.
“Come, Balaga is here.”
Anatole got up, and went into the dining-room. Balaga was a well-known driver, who had known Dolohov and Anatole for the last six years, and driven them in his three-horse sledges. More than once, when Anatole's regiment had been stationed at Tver, he had driven him out of Tver in the evening, reached Moscow by dawn, and driven him back the next night. More than once he had driven Dolohov safe away when he was being pursued. Many a time he had driven them about the town with gypsies and “gay ladies,” as he called them. More than one horse had he ruined in driving them. More than once he had driven over people and upset vehicles in Moscow, and always his “gentlemen,” as he called them, had got him out of trouble. Many a time had they beaten him, many a time made him drunk with champagne and madeira, a wine he loved, and more than one exploit he knew of each of them, which would long ago have sent any ordinary man to Siberia. They often called Balaga in to their carousals, made him drink and dance with the gypsies, and many a thousand roubles of their money had passed through his hands. In their service, twenty times a year, he risked his life and his skin, and wore out more horses than they repaid him for in money. But he liked them, liked their furious driving, eighteen versts an hour, liked upsetting coachmen, and running down people on foot in Moscow, and always flew full gallop along the Moscow streets. He liked to hear behind him the wild shout of drunken voices, “Get on; get on!” when it was impossible to drive faster; liked to give a lash on the neck to a passing peasant who was already hastening out of his way more dead than alive. “Real gentlemen!” he thought.
Anatole and Dolohov liked Balaga, too, for his spirited driving, and because he liked the same things that they liked. With other people Balaga drove hard bargains; he would take as much as twenty-five roubles for a two hours' drive, and rarely drove himself, generally sending one of his young men. But with his own gentlemen, as he called them, he always drove himself, and never asked for anything for the job.
Only after learning through their valets when money was plentiful, he would turn up once every few months in the morning; and sober, and bowing low, would ask them to help him out of his difficulties. The gentlemen always made him sit down.
“Please, help me out of a scrape, Fyodor Ivanovitch, or your excellency,” he would say. “I'm quite run out of horses; lend me what you can to go to the fair.”
And whenever they were flush of money Anatole and Dolohov would give him a thousand or two.
Balaga was a flaxen-headed, squat, snub-nosed peasant of seven and twenty, with a red face and a particularly red, thick neck, little sparkling eyes, and a little beard. He wore a fine blue silk-lined full coat, put on over a fur pelisse.
He crossed himself, facing the opposite corner, and went up to Dolohov, holding out his black, little hand.
“Respects to Fyodor Ivanovitch!” said he, bowing
“Good-day to you, brother. Well, here he comes!”
“Good-morning, your excellency!” he said to Anatole as he came in and to him, too, he held out his hand.
“I say, Balaga,” said Anatole, laying his hands on his shoulders, “do you care for me or not? Eh? Now's the time to do me good service.… What sort of horses have you come with? Eh?”
“As the messenger bade me; your favourite beasts,” said Balaga.
“Come, Balaga, do you hear? You may kill all three of them; only get there in three hours. Eh?”
“If I kill them, how are we to get there?” said Balaga, winking.
“None of your jokes now. I'll smash your face in!” cried Anatole suddenly, rolling his eyes.
“Jokes!” said the driver, laughing. “Do I grudge anything for my gentlemen? As fast as ever the horses can gallop we shall get there.”
“Ah!” said Anatole. “Well, sit down.”
“Come, sit down,” said Dolohov.
“Oh, I'll stand, Fyodor Ivanovitch.”
“Sit down; nonsense! have a drink,” said Anatole, and he poured him out a big glass of madeira. The driver's eyes sparkled at the sight of the wine. Refusing it at first for manners' sake, he tossed it off, and wiped his mouth with a red silk handkerchief that lay in his cap.
“Well, and when are we to start, your excellency?”
“Oh…” Anatole looked at his watch. “We must set off at once. Now mind, Balaga. Eh? You'll get there in time?”
“To be sure, if we've luck in getting off. Why shouldn't we do it in the time?” said Balaga. “We got you to Tver, and got there in seven hours. You remember, I bet, your excellency!”
“Do you know, I once drove from Tver at Christmas time,” said Anatole, with a smile at the recollection, addressing Makarin, who was gazing admiringly at him. “Would you believe it, Makarka, one could hardly breathe we flew so fast. We drove into a train of wagons and rode right over two of them! Eh?”
“They were horses, too,” Balaga went on. “I'd put two young horses in the traces with the bay in the shafts”—he turned to Dolohov—“and, would you believe me, Fyodor Ivanovitch, sixty versts those beasts galloped. There was no holding them, for my hands were numb; it was a frost. I flung down the reins. “You hold them yourself, your excellency,” said I, and I rolled up inside the sledge. No need of driving them. Why, we couldn't hold them in when we got there. In three hours the devils brought us. Only the left one died of it.”
近来阿纳托利迁到多洛霍夫家中去了。秘密带走罗斯托娃的计划经由多洛霍夫周密考虑，并且准备了好几天了。那天，当索尼娅在娜塔莎的门边窃听并且决定保护娜塔莎，使伊免受危害的时候，这个出走的计划眼看就要实现了。娜塔莎一口答应晚上十点钟在后门台阶与库拉金相会，库拉金就要扶她坐上事先准备的三套马车，就要把她送到离莫斯科六十俄里的卡缅卡村，在那里请到一位还俗的牧师，牧师给他们举行结婚仪式，卡缅卡村业已准备换乘的马匹，把他们送到华沙大道，之后就改乘驿马行路，疾速地驰往国外。
阿纳托利随身带有护照和驿马使用证、从妹妹处得到的一万卢布及由多洛霍夫经手借到的一万卢布。
两个证明人坐在头一个房间是饮茶，其中一人叫做赫沃斯季科夫，是个专门为多洛霍夫赌博助兴的、从前的小公务员；另一人则是温和而软弱的退役骠骑兵马卡林，他是个无限热爱库拉金的人。
多洛霍夫的一间宽大的书斋。从墙壁到天花板都挂满了波斯壁毯、熊皮和武器，多洛霍夫穿着一件旅行时穿的紧身外衣和一双皮靴，在敞开着的写字台前坐着，写字台上放着算盘和几叠钞票。阿纳托利穿着一件没有扣好钮扣的制服，从坐着两个证明人的房里出来，穿过书斋，走进后面的房间，一个法国仆人和另外几个仆人在那里收拾最后几件没有放好的东西。多洛霍夫一面算钞票，一面记帐。
“喂，”他说，“要给赫沃斯季科夫两千卢布。”
“嗯，给他吧。”阿纳托利说。
“马卡尔卡（他们都这样称呼马卡林）这个人毫无私心地愿为你赴汤蹈火，分文不取。喂，就这样清账了。”多洛霍夫把账单拿给他看时说道，“对吗？”
“是的，不消说，对了，”阿纳托利说，看来，他不听多洛霍夫说话，他脸上总是含着笑意，不停地举目向前看去。
多洛霍夫砰然一声关上了写字台的盖子，带着讥讽的微笑，把脸转向阿纳托利。
“你听我说，要抛弃这一切，还有时间，来得及啊！”他说。
“笨蛋！”阿纳托利说，“不要再说蠢话吧。如果你知道，那就好了……鬼也不知道这是怎么回事！”
“说真的，抛掉那一切，”多洛霍夫说。“我对你说的是正经事。难道是开玩笑吗？你想到了什么鬼名堂？”
“啊，又来，又来逗弄人吗？让你见鬼去，好吗？……”阿纳托利皱起了眉头，说道，“真的，哪有工夫听你开这些愚蠢的玩笑。”于是他从房里走出去。
当阿纳托利走出去以后，多洛霍夫脸上流露着轻蔑的宽厚的微笑。
“你等一等，”他在阿纳托利身后说，“我不开玩笑，我说正经话，来吧，到这儿来吧。”
阿纳托利又走进房里来，尽量集中注意力望着多洛霍夫，看来情不自禁地听从他摆布。
“你听我说吧，我最后一次告诉你。我跟你开啥玩笑呢？难道我违拗你吗？谁替你安排这一切的？谁把牧师找来的？谁替你领到护照？谁替你把钱弄到手？都是我替你干的。”
“那就谢谢你。你以为我会忘恩负义吗？”阿纳托利叹了一口气，拥抱了多洛霍夫。
“我帮过你的忙，但是我仍然要把实情告诉你，如果加以分析一下，这是一件危险的、愚蠢的事情。你把她秘密带走倒很好。难道他们会撒手不管吗？你已结婚这件事，他们都会知道的。岂不要向刑事法庭控告你……”
“唉！真是一派胡言，一派胡言！”阿纳托利又蹙起额角说。“我不是向你说明了吗？”阿纳托利怀有迟钝的人对他们凭自己的智慧能够得出结论的特殊的偏爱，重述他对多洛霍夫重述过一百次左右的推论。“我不是向你讲过了，我这样断定：如果这次结婚无效，”他弯屈指头说道，“就是说我无责任；如果这次结婚有效，那横竖一样，在国外没有人知道这件事，喏，岂不是这样的吗？甭说了，甭说了，甭说了！”
“真的，放弃吧！你只会束缚自己……”
“让你见鬼去，”阿纳托利说，他紧紧地抓住头发，走到另一间房里去了，但是立刻又走回来，盘起两腿坐在靠近多洛霍夫前面的安乐椅上。“鬼也不知道这是怎么回事啊？你瞧瞧，我的心跳得真厉害！”他抓起多洛霍的手，按住自己的心窝，“Ah，quel pied，mon cher，quel regard！Une déésse①！是不是？”
①法语：她那多么可爱的小脚，我亲爱的朋友，她那迷人的眼神！真是个女神！
多洛霍夫脸上流露着冷淡的微笑，他那美丽的、显得放肆无礼的眼睛闪闪发光，凝视着他，显然他想再拿他开开心。
“喂，钱用光了，那时候怎么办啊？”
“那时候怎么办？呃？”阿纳托利重复地说，一想到未来，他诚然感到困惑不安。“那时候怎么办啊？以后我也不知道要怎么办……啊，干嘛说蠢话！”他看了一下表，“到时候了！”
阿纳托利往后面的房间走去。
“喂，你们快搞好了吗？在这里磨蹭！”他向仆人们喊道。
多洛霍夫收起了钱，大声呼唤仆人，吩咐司厨把路上吃的酒、菜和面食端来，然后便走进赫沃斯季科夫和马卡林坐着休息的房间。
阿纳托利在书斋里撑着一只臂肘，躺在沙发上，若有所思地露出笑意，温和地、低声地自言自语。
“你来随便吃点东西。喝点酒！”多洛霍夫从另一个房里向他大声喊道。
“不想吃！”阿纳托利回答，脸上还挂着一丝微笑。
“你来吧，巴拉加到了。”
阿纳托利站起来，走进餐厅。巴拉加是个迩近闻名的三套马车车夫，他认识多洛霍夫和阿纳托利并且用他自己的三套马车侍奉他们差不多六年了。当阿纳托利的兵团驻扎在特韦尔的时候，他不止一次晚上把他从特韦尔送出去，在黎明前再把他拉到莫斯科，次日深夜又把他送回来。他不止一次用马车拉着多洛霍夫逃脱追逐他的人，不止一次用马车拉着他们和茨冈女人以及少妇们（巴拉加就是这样称呼她们的）在全城兜风。他不止一次载着他们时，在莫斯科城撞伤行人和其他马车夫，而经常援救他的就是他的老爷们（他是这样称呼他们的）。他在给他们赶车时，累坏了不止一匹马。他们不止一次地揍他，他们不止一次地用香槟酒和他所喜欢的马德拉葡萄酒把他灌醉，他熟知他们每个人的越轨行为，若是普通人干出这种事，早就流放到西伯利亚去了。他们经常强邀巴拉加同去纵酒作乐，把他灌得烂醉，叫他和茨冈女郎一起跳舞，他们由他经手花掉的卢布就不止一千。他侍奉他们，在一年之内就有二十次要冒着生命危险并且遭受体罚的痛苦，为了给他们赶车，他把许多匹马累死了，他们纵然多付很多钱，也抵偿不了他的损失。不过他喜爱他们，喜爱那时速十八俄里的疯狂的驶行，他爱撞倒别的马车夫，压伤莫斯科的行人，在莫斯科的街道上全速地疾驶飞奔，在马车不能开得更快时，他爱听醉汉在他身后粗野地吆喝：“快赶！快赶！”他爱在庄稼汉的脖子上狠抽一鞭子，尽管这个庄稼汉本来就给吓得半死不活、已经闪到一边去了。“他们才是真正的老爷啊！”他这样想道。
因为巴拉加驾车很内行，而且他和他们的爱好相同，所以他们——阿纳托利和多洛霍夫——也喜爱他。巴拉加给其他人赶车时总要讲价钱，兜风两小时，索取二十五个卢布，他多半派他的年轻伙伴去赶车，他自己只是偶尔给别人干这种活儿。但是他给老爷们干活（他把他们称老爷爷），总是亲自出马，从不索取分文。只是从老爷的侍从那里打听到老爷家中有钱的时候，他才在几个月内有一个早上来见老爷，这时候没有喝酒，头脑清醒，在老爷面前深深地鞠躬，恳请他们搭救他。老爷们一问请他坐下。
“费奥多尔·伊万内奇老爷，大人，您真要救救我才好，”他说，“我根本没有马儿赶集了，您能借多少，就借多少吧。”
阿纳托利和多洛霍夫家里有钱的时候，就给他一千或两千卢布。
巴拉加是个淡褐色头发的庄稼汉，莫约二十七岁，面色红润，粗粗的脖子特别红，身体敦实，翘鼻子，一双小眼睛闪闪发光，满脸长着短短的髯须。他身穿短皮袄，罩上一件丝绸里子的雅致的蓝色长身上衣。
他对着上座画了个十字，走到多洛霍夫跟前，伸出一只不大的黑手。
“费奥多尔·伊万诺维奇！”他在鞠躬时说道。
“老兄，你好，他真来了。”
“大人，你好。”他对进来的阿纳托利说，也向他伸出手来。
“巴拉加，我说给你听，”阿纳托利把他的一双手搭在他肩上，说道，“你是不是喜欢我呢？呃？现在请你帮个忙……
你是用什么马把车子拉来的？啊？”
“遵照您的使者的吩咐，用您的几匹马把车子拉来了。”巴拉加说。
“喂，巴拉加，你听见吧！把你那三匹马全都累坏了，也要在三个钟头以内拉到。啊？”
“把马累坏了，那用什么拉车子呢？”巴拉加递个眼色说。
“啊，我打烂你的嘴巴，甭开玩笑！”阿纳托利忽然瞪大了眼睛，嚷道。
“怎么要开玩笑，”马车夫笑眯眯地说。“为了自己的老爷，我难道会怜惜什么？只要马儿拼命跑，我们就开车跟着跑。”
“啊！”阿纳托利说：“喂，请坐下。”
“怎么，请坐呀！”多洛霍夫说。
“费奥多尔·伊万诺维奇，我站一会儿。”
“你在撒谎，坐下，喝酒吧。”阿纳托利说，他给他斟了一大杯马德拉葡萄酒。马车夫看见葡萄酒，眼睛里露出喜悦的神情。他讲客气，想不喝，后来还是喝干了，并用他那条放在帽子里的红色丝绸手绢揩了揩嘴。
“好吧，大人，什么时候动身呢？”
“你瞧……（阿纳托利看看表）马上动身吧。当心，巴拉加。啊？赶得到吗？”
“像出门做客那样，要碰运气，不然，为什么赶不到呢？”巴拉加说。“把车子赶到特韦尔，要七个钟头。大人，你大概记得。”
“你还记得吧，有一次我从特韦尔动身去欢度圣诞，”阿纳托利把脸转向马卡林，流露出回忆的微笑说，这时马卡林温顺地、全神贯注地望着库拉金，“你是不是相信，马卡尔卡，我们飞也似的疾驰，简直喘不过气来。撞上了车队，我们从两辆车子上直冲过去。是不是？”
“这几匹马真不错啊！”巴拉加继续讲下去，“那时候我把两匹幼小的拉边梢的马和一匹淡栗色的马套在一起，”他把脸转向多洛霍夫说，“费奥多尔·伊万内奇，你相不相信，几头牲畜飞奔了六十俄里；简直勒不住，非常冷，我连手也冻僵了。我扔开缰绳，并且说，大人，勒住吧，岂料我突然倒在雪橇里。并不是说非赶牲口不可，而是一直到地头也没法勒住。在三个钟头之内，鬼使神差地赶到了。只有那匹拉左边套的马倒毙了。”
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