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into the room, the latter thought it his duty to assure the captain again that he was not a Frenchman, and would have withdrawn, but the French officer would not hear of it.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 an intonation of inquiry. Pierre bowed.
“Your baptismal name, if you please? I ask nothing more. M. Pierre, you say? Perfect! That's all I want to know.”
When they had brought in the mutton, an omelette, a samovar, vodka, and wine from a Russian cellar brought with them by the French, Ramballe begged Pierre to share his dinner; and at once with the haste and greediness of a healthy, hungry man, set to work on the viands himself, munching vigorously with his strong teeth, and continually smacking his lips and exclaiming, “Excellent! exquis!” His face became flushed and perspiring. Pierre was hungry, and pleased to share the repast. Morel, the orderly, brought in a pot of hot water, and put a bottle of red wine to warm in it. He brought in too a bottle of kvass from the kitchen for them to taste. This beverage was already known to the French, and had received a nickname. They called it limonade de cochon, and Morel praised this “pigs' lemonade,” which he had found in the kitchen. But as the captain had the wine they had picked up as they crossed Moscow, he left the kvass for Morel, and attacked the bottle of bordeaux. He wrapped a napkin round the bottle, and poured out wine for himself and Pierre. The wine, and the satisfaction of his hunger, made the captain even more lively, and he chatted away without a pause all dinner-time.
“Yes, my dear M. Pierre, I owe you a fine votive candle for saving me from that maniac. I have bullets enough in my body, you know. Here is one from Wagram” (he pointed to his side), “and two from Smolensk” (he showed the scar on his cheek). “And this leg which won't walk, as you see. It was at the great battle of la Moskowa on the 7th that I got that. Sacré Dieu, it was fine! You ought to have seen that; it was a deluge of fire. You cut us out a tough job; you can boast of that, my word on it! And on my word, in spite of the cough I caught, I should be ready to begin again. I pity those who did not see it.”
“I was there,” said Pierre.
“Really!” pursued the Frenchman. “Well, so much the better. You are fine enemies, though. The great redoubt was well held, by my pipe. And you made us pay heavily for it too. I was at it three times, as I'm sitting here. Three times we were upon the cannons, and three times we were driven back like cardboard figures. Oh, it was fine, M. Pierre. Your grenadiers were superb, God's thunder. I saw them six times in succession close the ranks and march as though on parade. Fine fellows. Our king of Naples, who knows all about it, cried, Bravo! Ah, ah, soldiers like ourselves,” he said after a moment's silence. “So much the better, so much the better, M. Pierre. Terrible in war … gallant, with the fair” (he winked with a smile)—“there you have the French, M. Pierre, eh?”
The captain was so na?vely and good-humouredly gay and obtuse and self-satisfied that Pierre almost winked in response, as he looked good-humouredly at him. Probably the word “gallant” brought the captain to reflect on the state of things in Moscow.
“By the way, tell me, is it true that all the women have left Moscow? What a queer idea! What had they to fear?”
“Would not the French ladies quit Paris, if the Russians were to enter it?” said Pierre.
“Ha—ha—ha!…” The Frenchman gave vent to a gay, sanguine chuckle, slapping Pierre on the shoulder. “That's a good one, that is,” he went on. “Paris … But Paris…”
“Paris is the capital of the world,” said Pierre, finishing the sentence for him.
The captain looked at Pierre. He had the habit of stopping short in the middle of conversation, and staring intently with his laughing genial eyes.
“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.
“Well, another bottle of this Moscow claret, eh? Morel, warm us another bottle!” the captain shouted gaily.
Morel brought candles and a bottle of wine. The captain looked at Pierre in the candle-light, and was obviously struck by the troubled face of his companion. With genuine regret and sympathy in his face, Ramballe approached Pierre, and bent over him.
“Eh, we are sad!” he said, touching Pierre on the hand. “Can I have hurt you? No, really, have you anything against me?” he questioned. “Perhaps it is owing to the situation of affairs?”
Pierre made no reply, but looked cordially into the Frenchman's eyes. This expression of sympathy was pleasant to him.
“My word of honour, to say nothing of what I owe you, I have a liking for you. Can I do anything for you? Dispose of me. It is for life and death. With my hand and my heart, I say so,” he said, slapping himself on the chest.
“Thank you,” said Pierre. The captain gazed at Pierre as he had gazed at him when he learnt the German for “refuge,” and his face suddenly brightened.
“Ah, in that case, I drink to our friendship,” he cried gaily, pouring out two glasses of wine.
Pierre took the glass and emptied it. Ramballe emptied his, pressed Pierre's hand once more, and leaned his elbow on the table in a pose of pensive melancholy.
“Yes, my dear friend, such are the freaks of fortune,” he began. “Who would have said I should be a soldier and captain of dragoons in the service of Bonaparte, as we used to call him. And yet here I am at Moscow with him. I must tell you, my dear fellow,” he continued in the mournful and measured voice of a man who intends to tell a long story, “our name is one of the most ancient in France.”
And with the easy and na?ve unreserve of a Frenchman, the captain told Pierre the history of his forefathers, his childhood, boyhood, and manhood, and all his relations, his fortunes, and domestic affairs. “Ma pauvre mère,” took, of course, a prominent part in this recital.
“But all that is only the setting of life; the real thing is love. Love! Eh, M. Pierre?” he said, warming up. “Another glass.”
Pierre again emptied his glass, and filled himself a third.
“O women! women!” and the captain, gazing with moist eyes at Pierre, began talking of love and his adventures with the fair sex. They were very numerous, as might readily be believed, judging from the officer's conceited, handsome face and the eager enthusiasm with which he talked of women. Although all Ramballe's accounts of his love affairs were characterised by that peculiar nastiness in which the French find the unique charm and poetry of love, the captain told his stories with such genuine conviction that he was the only man who had tasted and known all the sweets of love, and he described the women he had known in such an alluring fashion that Pierre listened to him with curiosity.
It was evident that l'amour the Frenchman was so fond of was neither that low and simple kind of love Pierre had at one time felt for his wife, nor the romantic love, exaggerated by himself, that he felt for Natasha. For both those kinds of love Ramballe had an equal contempt—one was l'amour des charretiers, the other l'amour des nigauds. L'amour for which the Frenchman had a weakness consisted principally in an unnatural relation to the woman, and in combinations of monstrous circumstances which lent the chief charm to the feeling.
Thus the captain related the touching history of his love for a fascinating marquise of five-and-thirty, and at the same time for a charming, innocent child of seventeen, the daughter of the fascinating marquise. The conflict of generosity between mother and daughter, ending in the mother sacrificing herself and offering her daughter in marriage to her lover, even now, though it was a memory in the remote past, moved the captain deeply. Then he related an episode in which the husband played the part of the lover, and he—the lover—the part of the husband, and several comic episodes among his reminiscences of Germany, where Unterkunft means asile, where the husbands eat cabbage soup, and where the young girls are too flaxen-haired.
The last episode was one in Poland, still fresh in the captain's memory, and described by him with rapid gestures and a glowing face. The story was that he had saved the life of a Pole—the episode of saving life was continually cropping up in the captain's anecdotes—and that Pole had intrusted to his care his bewitching wife, a Parisian in heart, while he himself entered the French service. The captain had been happy, the bewitching Polish lady had wanted to elope with him; but moved by a magnanimous impulse, the captain had restored the wife to the husband with the words: “I saved your life, and I save your honour.”
As he repeated these words, the captain wiped his eyes and shook himself, as though to shake off the weakness that overcame him at this touching recollection.
As men often do at a late hour at night, and under the influence of wine, Pierre listened to the captain's stories, and while he followed and understood all he told him, he was also following a train of personal reminiscences which had for some reason risen to his imagination. As he listened to those love affairs, his own love for Natasha suddenly came into his mind, and going over all the pictures of that love in his imagination, he mentally compared them with Ramballe's stories. As he heard the account of the conflict between love and duty, Pierre saw before him every detail of the meeting with the object of his love at the Suharev Tower. That meeting had not at the time made much impression on him; he had not once thought of it since. But now it seemed to him that there was something very significant and romantic in that meeting.
“Pyotr Kirillitch, come here, I recognise you”; he could hear her words now, could see her eyes, her smile, her travelling cap, and the curl peeping out below it … and he felt that there was something moving, touching in all that.
When he had finished his tale about the bewitching Polish lady, the captain turned to Pierre with the inquiry whether he had had any similar experience of self-sacrifice for love and envy of a lawful husband.
Pierre, roused by this question, lifted his head and felt an irresistible impulse to give expression to the ideas in his mind. He began to explain that he looked upon love for woman somewhat differently. He said he had all his life long loved one woman, and still loved her, and that that woman could never be his.
“Tiens!” said the captain.
Then Pierre explained that he had loved this woman from his earliest youth, but had not dared to think of her because she was too young, and he had been an illegitimate son, with no name of his own. Then when he had received a name and wealth, he had not dared think of her because he loved her too much, because he set her too high above all the world, and so even more above himself. On reaching this point, Pierre asked the captain, did he understand that.
The captain made a gesture expressing that whether he understood it or not, he begged him to proceed.
“Platonic love; moonshine…” he muttered. The wine he had drunk, or an impulse of frankness, or the thought that this man did not know and never would know, any of the persons concerned in his story, or all together loosened Pierre's tongue. With faltering lips and with a faraway look in his moist eye, he told all his story; his marriage and the story of Natasha's love for his dearest friend and her betrayal of him, and all his own simple relations with her. In response to questions from Ramballe, he told him, too, what he had at first concealed—his position in society—and even disclosed his name.
What impressed the captain more than anything else in Pierre's story was the fact that Pierre was very wealthy, that he had two palatial houses in Moscow, and that he had abandoned everything, and yet had not left Moscow, but was staying in the town concealing his name and station.
Late in the night they went out together into the street. The night was warm and clear. On the left there was the glow of the first fire that broke out in Moscow, in Petrovka. On the right a young crescent moon stood high in the sky, and in the opposite quarter of the heavens hung the brilliant comet which was connected in Pierre's heart with his love. At the gates of the yard stood Gerasim, the cook, and two Frenchmen. Pierre could hear their laughter and talk, incomprehensible to one another. They were looking at the glow of the fire burning in the town.
There was nothing alarming in a small remote fire in the immense city.
Gazing at the lofty, starlit sky, at the moon, at the comet and the glow of the fire, Pierre felt a thrill of joyous and tender emotion. “How fair it all is! what more does one want?” he thought. And all at once, when he recalled his design, his head seemed going round; he felt so giddy that he leaned against the fence so as not to fall.
Without taking leave of his new friend, Pierre left the gate with unsteady steps, and going back to his room lay down on the sofa and at once fell asleep.
法国军官同皮埃尔走进屋子后，皮埃尔认为务必要再次让上尉相信，他不是法国人，并且想离开，但法国军官连听都不想听。他是如此地谦恭、亲热、和善，并真诚地感激救命之情，以致皮埃尔不好意思拒绝，同他一起在厅里，即是他们走进的第一个房间里坐了下来。对于皮埃尔否认自己是法国人，上尉耸耸肩膀，显然不理解何以要拒绝这一雅号，但又说，尽管他一定要坚持以俄国人自居，那也只能这样，但他仍旧永志不忘他的救命之恩。
如果此人稍微具有理解他人的才华，就会猜出皮埃尔的心情，而皮埃尔也就会离开他了；但他对自身之外的一切，都迟钝得不可理喻，这就俘虏了皮埃尔。
“Francais ou prince russe incognito，”①他说，同时看了看虽然很脏，却很精致的皮埃尔的衬衫和他手上的戒指。，Je vous dois la vie et je vous offre mon amittié．Un francais n'oublie jamais ni une insulte ni un service．Je vous offre mon amitié．Je ne vous dis que ca．”②
这个军官说话的声音，脸上的表情，手势等，是那样的和善和高尚（就法国人的概念而言），致使皮埃尔不由得对其微笑报之以微笑，握住了伸过来的手。
“Capitaine Ramballe du 13—me léger，decoré pour l'affaire du sept．”③他自我介绍说，脸上堆起的满意得不得了的笑容，使胡髭下的嘴唇撮成一团。“Voudrez vous bien dire a présent a qui j'ai l'honneur de parler aussi agréablement au lieu de rester à l'am－bulance avec la balle de ce fou dans le corps．”④
①是法国人也好，化名的俄国公爵也好。
②您救我一命，我得感激您，我献给您友谊。法国人既不会忘记屈辱，也不会忘记恩惠。我献出我的友谊。此外，不再说什么。
③上尉朗巴，第十三轻骑兵团，九月七日，因功授荣誉团骑士。
④是否劳您驾现在告诉我，我身上没有带着疯子的子弹去包扎站，而是有幸愉快地在和谁交谈。
皮埃尔回答说，他不能说出他的名字，并羞赧地一面试图编造一个名字，一面又开始讲他不能说出名字的理由，但法国人连忙打断了他的话。
“De graAce，”他说。“Je comprends vos raisons，vous êtes offi－cier…officier superieur，peut—être．Vous avez porté les armes contre nous．——Ce n'est pas mon affaire．Je vous dois la vie．Cela me suffit．Je suis tout à vous．Vous êtes gentil homme．”①他以探问的口气补充说。皮埃尔低下头来。
“Votre nom de bapteme，s'il vous palAit？Je ne demande pas davantage．M—r Pierre，dites vous …Parfait．C'est tout ce que je désire savoir．”②
①哦，够了。我理解您，您是军官……或许还是司令部军官。您同我们作过战。——这不关我的事。我的性命多亏了您。我很满意，愿为您效劳。
您是贵族吧？
②尊姓大名？我别的都不问。您说您是皮埃尔先生？好极了。这就是我要知道的。
羊肉，煎鸡蛋，茶炊、伏特加和法军带在身边的从俄国人地窖里弄到的葡萄酒都端上来之后，朗巴请皮埃尔一道进午餐，而他本人迫不及待地，像一个健康而又饥饿的人那样，一付馋相地先吃了起来，用他那有力的牙齿迅速咀嚼，不停地咂嘴，一面说：excellent，exquis！①他的脸涨得通红，沁出了汗珠。皮埃尔也饿了，便欣然一道就餐。马弁莫雷尔端来一小锅热水，把一瓶红葡萄酒放在里面温着。此外，他还端来一瓶克瓦斯，这是他从厨房里取来尝尝的。这种饮料法国人早已知道，并给起了个名。
①好极了，太妙了！
他们管克瓦斯叫limonade de cochon（猪柠檬汁），莫雷尔就赞赏这种他在厨房里找到的limonade de cochon。但是，由于上尉移防穿过莫斯科时已搞到了葡萄酒，他便把克瓦斯给了莫雷尔，专注于那瓶波尔多红葡萄酒。他用餐巾裹着瓶颈给自己和皮埃尔斟上了酒。饥饿感的消除，再加上葡萄酒，使上尉更加活跃，因而他在这一顿饭的时间里不停地说话。
“Oui，mon cher m—r Pierre，je vous dois une fière chandelle de m'avoir sauvé…de cet enragé…J'en ai assez，voyez—vous，de balles dans le corps．En voilā une，（他指了指腰部）à Wagram et de deux à Smolensk，”他指着面颊上的伤疤。“Et cette jambe，comme vous voyez，qui ne veut pas marcher．C'est à la grande bataille du 7 à la Moskowa que j'ai recu ca．Sacré Dieu，c'était beau！Il fallait voir ca，c'était un déluge de feu．Vous nous avez taillé une rude besogne；vous pouvez vous en vanter，nom d'un petit bonBhomme．Et，ma parole，malgré la toux，que j'y ai gagné，je serais prêt à recommencer．Je plains ceux qui n'ont pas vu ca．”①
①是的，我亲爱的皮埃尔先生，我要为您敬一支辉煌的蜡烛，以感谢您从疯子手里救了我。您瞧，从我身上取出了相当多的子弹哟。一颗是在瓦格拉木挨的，（他指着腰部），另一颗是在斯摩棱斯克挨的（他指着面颊上的伤疤）。而这条腿，您瞧，它不愿动力。这是九月七号在莫斯科大战时负的伤。（法国称波罗底诺战役为莫斯科战役，九月七号是指西历，按俄历则为八月二十六日。）呵！那太壮观了！值得一看，那是一片火海。你们给我们出一道难题，是可以夸耀的。说真的，尽管得了这个王牌（他指了指十字勋章），我倒还愿意一切从头来过。很惋惜没见到这个场面的人啊。
“J'y ai êté。”皮埃尔说。
“Bah，vraiment！Eh bien，tant mieux，”法国人继续说。“Vous êtes de fiers ennemis，tout de même．La grande redoute a été tenace，nom d'une pipe．Et vous nous I'avez fait craAnement payer．J'y suis allé fois trois，tel que vous me voyez．Trois fois nous êtions sur les canons et trois fois on nous a culbuté et comme des capucins de cartes．Oh！c'était beau，M—r Pierre．Vos grenadiers ont été superbes，tonnerre de Dieu．Je les ai vu six fois de suite serrer les rangs，et marcher comme à une revue．Ies beaux hommes！Notre roi de Naples qui s'y connait a crié：bra－vo！Ah，Ah！soldat comme nous autres！”他沉默片刻之后说。“Tant mieux，tant mieux，m—r Pierre．Terribles en bataille…galants…”他微笑地眨了眨眼，“avec les belles，voila les francais，m—r Pierre，n'est ce pas？”①
①我当时在那里。 哦，真的吗？那更好。你们是勇敢的敌人，必须承认。那座偌大的多角堡你们守得不错，真见鬼。还迫使我们付出了高昂的代价呢。我冲过去了三次，您知道，我不骗您。我们三次到了炮位附近，三次都给赶了回来，像纸人儿似的。你们的掷弹兵了不起，真的。我看见他们六次集结队伍，就跟去参加阅兵一样地前进。奇妙的人们！我们的那不勒斯王……这也是他的拿手好戏……对他们喝彩：“好哇！”哈，哈！您也是我们行伍弟兄！那更好，那更好，皮埃尔先生。战斗中是可怕的，对美丽的女人是多情的。这就是法国人，皮埃尔先生。是不是这样？
上尉欢天喜地，一副纯真和善自得的样儿，使皮埃尔望着他几乎也要开心地挤眉眨眼了。大概是“多情”这个字眼使上尉想到了莫斯科的状况：“A propos，dites donc，est—ce vrai que toutes les femmes ont quittée Moscou？Une droAle d'idée！Qu'avaient—elles a crainBdre？”
“Est—ce que les dames francaises ne quitBteraient pas Paris si les Russes y entraient？”①皮埃尔说。
①顺便问问，您告诉我，女人们是否真的离开了莫斯科？奇怪的念头，她们怕什么呢？ 如果俄国人开进巴黎，难道法国女人不离开？
“Ah，ah，ah！…”法国人开心地神经质地哈哈大笑起来，拍拍皮埃尔的肩膀说。“Ah！elle est forte celle—là。”他接着说。“Paris？…Mais Paris…Paris…”
“Paris，La capitale du monde…”①皮埃尔替他说完。
①哈哈哈！…我这是说笑话。巴黎？可是巴黎……巴黎……巴黎是世界之都……
上尉看了看皮埃尔。他习惯于在谈话间停下来用笑容和温柔的目光打量交谈者。
“Eh，bien，si vous ne m'aiez pas dit que vous êtes Russe，j'aurai pariè que vous êtes Parisien．Vous avez ce je ne sais quoi，ce …①”说出这番恭维话后，他又默默地看了看对方。
①如果您没告诉我您是俄国人，我一定打赌说您是巴黎人。您身上有……
“J'ai été à Paris，j'y ai passé des années，”
皮埃尔说。
“Oh ca se voit bien．Paris！…Un homme qui ne connait pas Paris，est un sauvage．Un Parisien，ca se sent à deux lieux．Pairs，c'est Talma，la Duschéonis，Potier，la Sorbornn，les boulevards。”①发觉这一结论不如刚才说的有力，他又急忙补充：“Il n'y a qu'un Paris au monde．Vous avez été a Paris
①啊，这很明显，巴黎！……不知道巴黎的人是野人。一个巴黎人，你在两里外便认得出来，巴黎，这是塔尔马，迪歇努瓦，波蒂埃，索尔本，林荫大道。 我到过巴黎，在那儿住过多年。
et vous êtes resté Russe．Eh bien，je ne vous en estime pas moins．”①
皮埃尔喝了葡萄酒，几天来，在孤寂中想着忧郁的心事，因此他现在同这位快活而和善的人谈话，感觉到情不自禁的高兴。
①全世界只有一个巴黎。您到过巴黎，但仍然是一个俄国人。这也没什么，我不会因此降低我对您的尊重。
“Pour en revenir à vos dames，on les dit bien belles．Quelle fichue idée d'aller s'enterrer dans les steppes，quand l'arm ée francaise est a Moscou．Quelle chance elles ont manqué celles—là．Vos moujiks c'est autre chose，mais vous autres gens civilisés vous devriez nous connalAtre mieux que ca．Nous avons pris Vienne，Berlin，Madrid，Naples，Rome，Varsovie，toutes les capitales du monde…On nous craint，mais on nous aime．Nous sommes bons à connalAtre．Et puis l'emBpereur．”①他开始打开话匣了，但皮埃尔打断了他。
①谈谈你们的女士们吧，听说她们很美貌。哪儿来的愚蠢念头，要在法军到莫斯科时跑到草原上去藏起来。他们错过了美妙的机会。你们的农民，我理解，但你们——有教养的人——应该更清楚地了解我们。我们拿下了维也纳，柏林，马德里，那不勒斯，罗马，华沙，全是世界的都会。他们怕我们，但也爱我们。和我们交往没有害处。况且皇帝……。
“L'empereur，”皮埃尔重复了一遍，他的脸色突然变得忧郁和困窘起来。“Est—ce que l'empereur…”①“L'empreur？C'est la générosité，la clémence，la justice，l'ordre，le génie，voilà l'empereur！C'est moi Ramballe qui vous le dit．Tel que vous me voyez，j'étais son enemi il y a encore huit ans．Mon père，a été comte émigré…Mais il m'a vaincu，cet homme．Il m'a empoigné．Je n'ai pas pu résister au spectacle de grandeur et de gloire dont il couvrait la France．Quand j'ai compris ce qu'il voulait，quand j'ai vu qu'il nous faisait une liti ère de lauriers，voyez vous，je me suis dit：voilà un souveran，et je me suis dornneè a lui．Eh voilà！Oh，oui，mon cher，c'est le plus grand homme des siècles passés et à Venir．”②
“Est—il à Moscou？”③皮埃尔口吃地带着应受谴责的神情说。
①皇帝……皇帝怎么……
②皇帝？这是宽厚，慈善，正义，秩序，天才的化身——这一切便是皇帝！这是我朗巴说的。您现在看到我这样子的，可是八年前我是反对他的。我父亲是流亡国外的伯爵。但皇上战胜了我，使我臣服于他。他的伟大和光荣荫庇着法国，在他面前我坚持不住了。当我明白他的想法，看到他让我们走上光荣的前程，我对自己说：这是陛下，我便献身于他。就这样！呵，是的，亲爱的，这是空前绝后的伟大。
③他在莫斯科？
法国人看了看皮埃尔负疚的表情，笑了。
“Non，il fera son entrée demain．”①他说，并继续讲自己的故事。
①不，他将于明天入城。
他们的谈话被大门口几个人的嘈杂的语声和莫雷尔走进房间所打断，他来报告上尉，符腾堡的骠骑兵来了，要把马匹安置在院子里，可是院子里已经驻下了上尉的马匹。麻烦的事儿主要是骠骑兵听不懂对他们说的语言。
上尉命令带骠骑兵上士来见他，严厉地质问他们属于哪个团的，长官是谁，有什么背景敢于占领已经有人占了的住宅。对于头两个问题，这个不太听得懂法语的德国兵回答了所在的团和长官；但对最后一个问题，他没听懂，却在德语夹杂些不完整的法语词句回答说，他是兵团的号房子的，长官命令他把这一片的房子都占下。懂德语的皮埃尔把德国兵的话翻译给上尉听又把上尉的回答用德语给骠骑兵翻译。德国兵听懂对他说的话之后，表示服从，带走了自己的人。上尉走出屋子，站在阶沿上大声地下了几道命令。
当他在回到屋子里时，皮埃尔仍然坐在原来的位子上，用双手捧着头。他的脸上是痛苦的表情。这一瞬间，他的确很痛苦。在上尉出去，皮埃尔单独留下时，他突然清醒过来，意识到了自己所处的地位。使他痛苦的不是莫斯科被占领，也不是幸运的胜利者在这里作威作福并且庇护他，尽管他对此感到沉重，但在这一时刻，这些倒不是使他感到痛苦的缘由。使他痛苦的是意识到自己的软弱。几杯葡萄酒，同这个和善的人的交谈，破坏了已凝聚起来的忧郁情绪，这是他执行他的计划所必需的，而他近几天都处于这种情绪之中。手枪、匕首和农民的衣服都准备好了，拿破仑第二天就要入城。皮埃尔依旧认为杀死这个恶人是有益的值得的，不过他现在觉得他干不成了。为什么？——他不知道，但似乎预感到，他实现不了自己的计划。他反抗自己软弱的意识，但模糊地觉得，他战胜不了它，他先前要复仇、杀人和自我牺牲的忧郁心情，在接触到第一个法国人之后，像灰尘一样飘散了。
上尉略微瘸着，吹着口哨走进屋子里去。
先前还能逗乐皮埃尔的法国军官的唠叨，现在适得其反使他讨厌了。他口哨吹的歌曲，步态，手势，以及抹胡子的动作，无一不使皮埃尔觉得受侮辱。
“我现在就走开，不再跟他说一句话，”皮埃尔想。他这样想着，同时仍在原地坐着不动。多么奇怪的软弱感觉把他禁锢在位子上：他想起身走开，但又做不到。
上尉则相反，好像极为高兴。他两次在屋子里走来走去。眼睛闪亮，胡子微微翘动，似乎为某种有趣的想法自顾自地微笑着。
“Charmant，”他突然说，“le colonel de ces Wurtem－bourgeois！C'est un Allemand；mais brave garcon，s'il en fǔt．Mais allemand．”①他在皮埃尔对面坐下。
①真迷人，这些符腾堡的兵士的上校。他是德国人，虽然如此，倒挺帅的。不过，他是德国人。
“A props，vous savez donc l'allemand，
vous？”①
皮埃尔沉默地望着他。
“Comment ditesvous asile en allemand？”②“Asile？”彼埃尔重复了一遍。“Asile en allemand—
Unterkunft．”③
“Comment dites—vous？”④上尉疑惑地很快又问了一遍。
“Unterkunft．”皮埃尔再说了一遍。
“Onterkoff，”上尉说，眼睛含笑地看了皮埃尔几秒钟。
“Les allemands sont de fières bêtes．N'est ce pas，m—r Pierre？”⑤他结束说。
“Eh bien，encore une bouteille de ce bordeau Moscouvite，n'est ce pas？Morel va nous chauffer encore une petite bouteile．Morel！”⑥上尉快活地叫起来。
①顺便说，您好像懂德语？
②避难所用德语怎么讲？
③避难所？避难所德语是——unterkunft。
④您说什么？
⑤Onterkoff（读讹了——译注）。这些德国人真蠢。您说是吗，皮埃尔先生？
⑥再来一瓶莫斯科波尔多酒，是这样说的吗？莫雷尔会再给我们温一瓶的，莫雷尔！
莫雷尔递上蜡烛和一瓶葡萄酒。上尉望望烛光里的皮埃尔，显然朗巴为对谈者此时沮丧的模样吃了一惊。他带着真正的同情而又痛苦的表情走到皮埃尔身旁，弓身对他说。
“Eh bien，nous sommes tristes，”①他碰了碰皮埃尔的胳膊说。“Vous aurai—je fait de la peine？Non，vrai，avez—vous quelque chose contre moi，”他一再地问。“Peut—être rapport à la situation？”②皮埃尔什么也没有回答，但动情地对视着法国人的眼睛。
那儿流出的同情使他心上好受。
“Parole d'honneur，sans parler de ce que je vous dois，j'ai de l'amitie pour vous．Puis—je faine quelque chose pour vous？Disposez de moi．C'est a la vie et à la mort．C'est la main sur le coeur que je vous le dis．”③他拍着胸脯说。
“Merci（谢谢）．”皮埃尔说。上尉凝神地望望皮埃尔，像当他弄清楚“避难所”的德语时，那样地看着他，脸上突然容光焕发。
“Ah！dans ce cas je bois à notre amitié！”④他斟满两杯酒，快活地大声说。皮埃尔拿起酒杯一饮而尽。朗巴也干了杯，又一次握了皮埃尔的手，然后忧伤地、心事重重地把手臂肘靠在桌上。
①怎么回事，我们都愁眉苦脸的。
②我惹恼您啦？不，其实是您有什么事要反对我吧？可能与局势有关，是吗？
③坦诚地说，即使不谈我欠您的情，我觉得我对您仍然友好。我不能替您排忧吗？请吩咐吧！我生死以之。我手摸着胸口对您说。
④啊，如此说来，我为我们的友谊干杯！
“Oui，mon cher ami，voilà les caprices de la fortume，”他开始说。“Qui m'aurait dit que je serai soldat et capitaine de dragons au service de Bonaparte，comme nous l'appellions jadis．Et cepenBdant me voilá a Moscou avec lui．Il faut vous dire，mon ch－er，”①他继续以忧郁的平缓的语调说，用这种语调的人是要讲一个长故事的，“que notre nmo est l'un des plus anciens de la France．”②接着，上尉以法国人的轻浮而天真的坦率态度面对皮埃尔谈起他的祖先的历史，他的童年，少年和青年，以及全部亲属，财产和家庭状况。“Ma pauvre mère”③不言而喻，在这一故事中起着重要作用。
“Mais tout ca ce n'est que la mise en scéne de la vie，le fond c'est l'amour．L'amour！N'est—ce pas，m—r Pierre？”他说，渐次活跃起来。
“Encore un verr．”④
①是啊，我的朋友，这是命运的安排。谁料到我会作波拿巴——我们习惯这样称呼他——麾下一名兵士和龙骑兵上尉呢？可我现在就正同他一道到了莫斯科。我该对您讲，亲爱的。
②我们这一姓是法国最古老的一姓呢。
③我可怜的母亲。
④但这一切只是人生之伊始，人生的实质呢是爱情。爱情！不是吗，皮埃尔先生！再来一杯。
皮埃尔再次干杯，又给自己斟满第三杯酒。
“Oh！less femmes，les femmes！”①上尉的眼睛油亮起来，望着皮埃尔，开始谈论爱情和自己的风流韵事。这样的事还不少，也易于使人相信，只消看看军官洋洋自得和漂亮的脸蛋，看看他谈起女人时眉飞色舞的表情就够了。尽管朗巴的恋爱史具有法国人把爱情视为特殊魅力和诗意的那种淫荡性质，但上尉的叙述却带着真诚的自信，认为只有他领略了爱情的魅力，而且把女人描述得那么撩人，使皮埃尔好奇地听地讲下去。
很显然，此人为此迷恋的l'amour②，既不是皮埃尔曾对妻子感受过的那种低级简单的爱，也不是他对娜塔莎所怀有的浪漫的单相思（这两种爱朗巴都不屑一顾——前一种是l'amour des charrctiers，后一种是l'amour des niBgauds③）；此人所倾倒的l'amour，主要在于对女人保护不正常的关系，在于给感官以最大吸引力的错综复杂的扭曲现象。
①呵女人，女人！
②爱情。
③马车夫的爱情……傻瓜的爱情。
譬如，上尉讲起了他的动人心弦的爱情史：爱上了一个迷人的三十五岁的侯爵夫人，同时又爱上了富有魅力的天真的十七岁的女孩，迷人的侯爵夫人的女儿。母女之间胸怀宽广的较量，以母亲自我牺牲，把女儿许配给自己的情夫而告终，这番较量虽早已成陈迹，现仍使上尉激动不已。接着，他讲述了一个情节，其中丈夫扮演情夫的角色，而他（情夫）扮演丈夫的角色：以及几件出自souvenire d'Allemagne的趣事，其中避难所即Unterkunft，在那儿les maris mangent de la choux crout，而且，les jeunes filles sont trop blondes①。
终于讲到了上尉记忆犹新的最近在波兰的插曲，他飞快地打着手势并涨红着脸说，他救了一个波兰人的命（上尉的故事里总少不了救命的情节），这个波兰人把自己迷人的妻子（Parisienne de coeur②）托付给他，本人就此参加法军。上尉真幸福，那迷人的波兰女人想同他私奔；但是，受着胸怀宽广的驱使，上尉把妻子还给了丈夫，同时对他说：je vous ai sauvé la vie et je sauve votre honneur！③复述了这句话后，上尉擦了擦眼睛，全身摇晃了一下，好像要从身上抖掉动人的回忆引发的脆弱感。
①（出自）有关德国的（的趣事）……丈夫们喝白菜汤……年轻女郎的头发淡黄。
②内心是巴黎女人。
③我救了您的性命，也要挽救您的名誉。
皮埃尔听上尉讲述时，正如在迟迟的黄昏又在酒的作用之下常有的情形，他专注于上尉所讲的一切，也明了了那一切，同时追溯他个人的一桩桩往事，那不知为什么此时突然出现在脑际的回忆。听刚才那些爱情故事的时候，他对娜塔莎的爱情突然意外地涌上心头，他一面重温一幕幕钟情的场面，一面有意地与朗巴的故事作比较。当听到爱情和责任的矛盾时，皮埃尔眼前出现了在苏哈列夫塔楼旁与爱慕的对象最后会面的整个详细情况。这次见面在当时对他没产生影响；他后来连一次也没想到过。但他现在觉得，这次见面有某种重大的诗意的情调。
彼得·基里雷奇，请走过来，我认出您了。”他现在又听到她在说这些话，看见她的眼睛，微笑，旅行套发帽，露出来的一绺头发……这一切，他觉得带有动人而又令人怜悯的色彩。
上尉讲完了迷人的波兰女人的故事，向皮埃尔提一个问题，问他是否有过为爱情而自我牺牲的类似体验，是否嫉妒合法的丈夫。
经他这一问，皮埃尔抬起了头，感到必须说出自己正在想什么；他开始解释，他所理解的对女人的爱情有点不一样。他说，他一生中爱过并仍然爱着的，只有一位女人，而这位女人绝不可能属于他。
“Tiens！”①上尉说。
皮埃尔又解释说，他从少年时代就爱上了这个女人，但是不敢想她，因为她太年轻，而他是一个没有姓氏的私生子。随后，当他继承了姓氏和财富时，他不敢想她，因为他太爱她，心目中认为她超出世间一切，因而也超出他自己之上。说到这里，皮埃尔问上尉是否明白这点。
上尉作了一个姿势，表示哪怕他不懂，也请他讲下去。
“L'amour platonique，les nuages…”②他嘟囔说。
①瞧你说的！
②柏拉图式的爱情，虚无缥渺……
是他喝下几杯酒呢，还是有坦率直言的愿望呢，抑或他想到这人不知道，也永远不会知道他故事里的角色，或者这一切的总和，使皮埃尔松开了舌头。于是，他用他油亮的眼睛注视着远方，咿咿唔唔地讲述自己整个的一生：包括自己的婚事，娜塔莎对他的好友的爱情故事，她后来的背叛，以及他对她的不复杂的关系。应朗巴的提问。他也讲出了他起初隐满的事——他的社会地位，甚至公开了自己的姓名。
在皮埃尔的故事里，最使上尉吃惊的，是皮埃尔非常富有，在莫斯科有两座府第，而他全部抛弃了，没有离开莫斯科，却又隐瞒姓名和封号留在城里。
夜已深了，这时他们一道走上了街头。这个夜晚是温暖而明亮的。房屋左面的天际，被在彼得罗夫克街上首先烧起的莫斯科的大火映照得通红。右边的天际高悬着一镰新月，新月的对面，挂着一颗明亮的彗星，这颗彗星在皮埃尔心灵深处与爱情紧密相连。大门口站着格兰西姆、厨娘和两名法军士兵，听得见他们的笑声和用互不理解的语言进行的谈话。他们都在看市区出现的火光。
在巨大的城市里，离得远的一处不大的火灾，是没有什么可怕的。
皮埃尔望着高高的星空，月亮，彗星和火光，感到一阵欣快。“呶，多么好啊，还有什么需要的呢？”他心里说，可是突然间，他想起了自己的计划，他的头晕了，发迷糊，便立刻靠着栅栏，才不致跌倒。
顾不上同新朋友道别，皮埃尔迈着不稳当的步子，离开大门口，一回到房间便躺到沙发上，顿时就入睡了。
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