PIERRE waked up late on the 3rd of September. His head ached, the clothes in which he had slept without undressing fretted his body, and he had a vague sense in his heart of something shameful he had done the evening before. That something shameful was his talk with Captain Ramballe.
His watch told him it was eleven, but it seemed a particularly dull day. Pierre stood up, rubbed his eyes, and seeing the pistol with its engraved stock—Gerasim had put it back on the writing-table—Pierre remembered where he was and what was in store for him that day
“Am I not too late already?” Pierre wondered.
No, probably he would not make his entry into Moscow before twelve o'clock. Pierre did not allow himself to reflect on what lay before him, but made haste to act.
Setting his clothes to rights, Pierre took up the pistol and was about to set off. But then for the first time it occurred to him to wonder how, if not in his hand, he was to carry the weapon in the street. Even under his full coat it would be hard to conceal a big pistol. It could not be put in his sash, nor under his arm, without being noticeable. Moreover, the pistol was now unloaded, and Pierre could not succeed in reloading it in time. “The dagger will do as well,” Pierre said to himself; though, in considering how he should carry out his design, he had more than once decided that the great mistake made by the student in 1809 was that he had tried to kill Napoleon with a dagger. But Pierre's chief aim seemed to be, not so much to succeed in his project, as to prove to himself that he was not renouncing his design, but was doing everything to carry it out. Pierre hurriedly took the blunt, notched dagger in a green scabbard, which he had bought, together with the pistol, at the Suharev Tower, and hid it under his waistcoat.
Tying the sash round his peasant's coat, and pulling his cap forward, Pierre walked along the corridor, trying to avoid making a noise and meeting the captain, and slipped out into the street.
The fire, at which he had gazed so indifferently the evening before, had sensibly increased during the night. Moscow was on fire at various points. There were fires at the same time in Carriage Row, Zamoskvoryetche, the Bazaar, and Povarsky, and the timber market near Dorogomilov bridge and the barges in the river Moskva were in a blaze.
Pierre's way lay across a side street to Povarsky, and from there across Arbaty to the chapel of Nikola Yavlenny, where he had long before in his fancy fixed on the spot at which the deed ought to be done. Most of the houses had their gates and shutters closed. The streets and lanes were deserted; there was a smell of burning and smoke in the air. Now and then he met Russians with uneasy and timid faces, and Frenchmen with a look of the camp about them, walking in the middle of the road. Both looked at Pierre with surprise. Apart from his great height and stoutness, and the look of gloomy concentration and suffering in his face and whole figure, Russians stared at Pierre because they could not make out to what class he belonged. Frenchmen looked after him with surprise, because, while all other Russians stared timidly and inquisitively at them, Pierre walked by without noticing them. At the gates of a house, three Frenchmen, disputing about something with some Russians, who did not understand their meaning, stopped Pierre to ask whether he knew French.
Pierre shook his head and walked on. In another lane a sentinel, on guard by a green caisson, shouted at him, and it was only at the repetition of his menacing shout, and the sound of his picking up his gun, that Pierre grasped that he ought to have passed the street on the other side. He heard and saw nothing around him. With haste and horror he bore within him his intention as something strange and fearful to him, fearing—from the experience of the previous night—to lose it. But Pierre was not destined to carry his design in safety to the spot to which he was bending his steps. Moreover, if he had not been detained on the road, his design could not have been carried out, because Napoleon had four hours earlier left the Dorogomilov suburb, and crossed Arbaty to the Kremlin; and he was by then sitting in the royal study in the Kremlin palace in the gloomiest temper, giving circumstantial orders for immediately extinguishing the fires, preventing pillage, and reassuring the inhabitants. But Pierre knew nothing of that; entirely engrossed in what lay before him, he was suffering the anguish men suffer when they persist in undertaking a task impossible for them—not from its inherent difficulties, but from its incompatibility with their own nature. He was tortured by the dread that he would be weak at the decisive moment, and so would lose his respect for himself.
Though he saw and heard nothing around him, he instinctively found his way, and took the right turning to reach Povarsky.
As Pierre got nearer to Povarsky Street, the smoke grew thicker and thicker, and the air was positively warm from the heat of the conflagration. Tongues of flame shot up here and there behind the house-tops. He met more people in the streets, and these people were in great excitement. But though Pierre felt that something unusual was happening around him, he did not grasp the fact that he was getting near the fire. As he walked along a path, across the large open space adjoining on one side Povarsky Street, and on the other side the gardens of Prince Gruzinsky, Pierre suddenly heard close by him the sound of a woman, crying desperately. He stood still, as though awakened from a dream, and raised his head.
On the dried-up, dusty grass on one side of the path lay heaps of household belongings piled up: feather-beds, a samovar, holy images, and boxes. On the ground, near the boxes, sat a thin woman, no longer young, with long, projecting front teeth, dressed in a black cloak and cap. This woman was weeping violently, swaying to and fro, and muttering something. Two little girls, from ten to twelve years old, dressed in dirty, short frocks and cloaks, were gazing at their mother, with an expression of stupefaction on their pale, frightened faces. A little boy of seven, in a coat and a huge cap, obviously not his own, was crying in an old nurse's arms. A bare-legged, dirty servant-girl was sitting on a chest; she had let down her flaxen hair, and was pulling out the singed hairs, sniffing at them. The husband, a short, stooping man, in a uniform, with little, wheel-shaped whiskers, and smooth locks of hair, peeping out from under his cap, which was stuck erect on his head, was moving the chests from under one another with an immovable face, dragging garments of some sort from under them.
The woman almost flung herself at Pierre's feet as soon as she saw him.
“Merciful heavens, good Christian folk, save me, help me, kind sir! … somebody, help me,” she articulated through her sobs. “My little girl! … My daughter! … My youngest girl left behind! … She's burnt! Oo … er! What a fate I have nursed thee for … Ooo!”
“Hush, Marya Nikolaevna,” the husband said in a low voice to his wife, evidently only to justify himself before an outsider.
“Sister must have taken her, nothing else can have happened to her!” he added.
“Monster, miscreant!” the woman screeched furiously, her tears suddenly ceasing. “There is no heart in you, you have no feeling for your own child. Any other man would have rescued her from the fire. But he is a monster, not a man, not a father. You are a noble man,” the woman turned to Pierre sobbing and talking rapidly. “The row was on fire—they rushed in to tell us. The girl screamed: Fire! We rushed to get our things out. Just as we were, we escaped. … This is all we could snatch up … the blessed images, we look at the children, and the bed that was my dowry, and all the rest is lost. Katitchka's missing. Oooo! O Lord! …” and again she broke into sobs. “My darling babe! burnt! burnt!”
“But where, where was she left?” said Pierre.
From the expression of his interested face, the woman saw that this man might help her.
“Good, kind sir!” she screamed, clutching at his legs. “Benefactor, set my heart at rest anyway … Aniska, go, you slut, show the way,” she bawled to the servant-girl, opening her mouth wide in her anger, and displaying her long teeth more than ever.
“Show the way, show me, I … I … I'll do something,” Pierre gasped hurriedly.
The dirty servant-girl came out from behind the box, put up her hair, and sighing, walked on in front along the path with her coarse, bare feet.
Pierre felt as though he had suddenly come back to life after a heavy swoon. He drew his head up, his eyes began to shine with the light of life, and with rapid steps he followed the girl, overtook her, and went into Povarsky Street. The whole street was full of clouds of black smoke. Tongues of flame shot up here and there out of these clouds. A great crowd had gathered in front of the fire. In the middle of the street stood a French general, saying something to those about him. Pierre, accompanied by the servant-girl, was approaching the place where the French general stood; but the French soldiers stopped him.
“Can't pass,” a voice shouted to him.
“This way, master,” bawled the girl. “We'll cut across Nikoliny by the lane.”
Pierre turned back, breaking into a run now and then to keep pace with her. The girl ran across the street, turned into a lane on the left, and passing three houses, turned in at a gate on the right.
“It's just here,” she said, and running across a yard, she opened a little gate in a paling-fence, and stopping short, pointed out to Pierre a small wooden lodge, which was blazing away brightly. One side of it had fallen in, the other was on fire, and flames peeped out at the window-holes and under the roof.
As Pierre went in at the little gate, he felt the rush of heat, and involuntarily stopped short.
“Which, which is your house?” he asked.
“Oooh!” wailed the servant-girl, pointing to the lodge. “That's it, that same was our lodging. Sure, you're burnt to death, our treasure, Katitchka, my precious little missy, ooh!” wailed Aniska, at the sight of the fire feeling the necessity of giving expression to her feelings too.
Pierre darted up to the lodge, but the heat was so great that he could not help describing a curve round it, and found himself close to a big house, which was as yet only on fire on one side, at the roof. A group of French soldiers were swarming round it. Pierre could not at first make out what these Frenchmen were about, dragging something out of the house. But seeing a French soldier in front of him beating a peasant with a blunt cutlass, and taking from him a fur-lined coat, Pierre became vaguely aware that pillaging was going on here—but he had no time to dwell on the idea.
The sound of the rumble and crash of falling walls and ceilings; the roar and hiss of the flames, and the excited shouts of the crowd; the sight of the hovering clouds of smoke—here folding over into black masses, there drawing out and lighted up by gleaming sparks; and the flames—here like a thick red sheaf, and there creeping like golden fish-scales over the walls; the sense of the heat and smoke and rapidity of movement, all produced on Pierre the usual stimulating effect of a conflagration. That effect was particularly strong on Pierre, because all at once, at the sight of the fire, he felt himself set free from the ideas weighing upon him. He felt young, gay, ready, and resolute. He ran round the lodge on the side of the house, and was about to run into that part which was still standing, when he heard several voices shouting immediately above his head, followed by the crash and bang of something heavy falling close by.
Pierre looked round, and saw at the windows of the house some French soldiers, who had just dropped out a drawer of a chest, filled with some metallic objects. Some more French soldiers standing below went up to the drawer.
“Well, what does that fellow want?” one of the French soldiers shouted, referring to Pierre.
“A child in the house. Haven't you seen a child?” said Pierre.
“What's the fellow singing? Get along, do!” shouted voices; and one of the soldiers, evidently afraid Pierre might take it into his head to snatch the silver and bronzes from them, pounced on him in a menacing fashion.
“A child?” shouted a Frenchman from above. “I did hear something crying in the garden. Perhaps it's the fellow's brat. Must be humane you know.”
“Where is it?” asked Pierre.
“This way!” the French soldier shouted to him from the window pointing to the garden behind the house. “Wait, I'll come down.”
And in a minute the Frenchman, a black-eyed fellow, with a patch on his cheek, in his shirt-sleeves, did in fact jump out of a window on the ground floor, and slapping Pierre on the shoulder, he ran with him to the garden. “Make haste, you fellows,” he shouted to his comrades, “it's beginning to get hot.” Running behind the house to a sanded path, the Frenchman pulled Pierre by the arm, and pointed out to him a circular space. Under a garden seat lay a girl of three years old, in a pink frock.
“Here's your brat. Ah, a little girl. So much the better,” said the Frenchman. “Good-bye. Must be humane, we are all mortal, you know”; and the Frenchman, with the patch on his cheek, ran back to his comrades.
Pierre, breathless with joy, ran up to the child, and would have taken her in his arms. But seeing a stranger, the little girl—a scrofulous-looking, unattractive child very like her mother—screamed and ran away. Pierre caught her, however, and lifted her up in his arms; she squealed in desperate fury, and tried to tear herself out of Pierre's arms with her little hands, and to bite him with her dirty, dribbling mouth. Pierre had a sense of horror and disgust, such as he had felt at contact with some little beast. But he made an effort to overcome it, and not to drop the child, and ran with it back to the big house. By now, however, it was impossible to get back by the same way; the servant-girl, Aniska, was nowhere to be seen, and with a feeling of pity and loathing, Pierre held close to him, as tenderly as he could, the piteously howling, and sopping wet baby, and ran across the garden to seek some other way out.
九月三日，皮埃尔醒得很晚。他头痛，他睡觉时不曾脱下的外套裹缠在身上使他觉得不舒服，心里为昨晚的表现模糊地感到愧疚；这惭愧的事情就是昨晚同朗巴上尉的谈话。
时针指到十一点，但是户外似乎还特别晦暗。皮埃尔起床，擦了擦眼睛，看见格拉西姆又放在写字台上的带雕花枪托的手枪后，想起了他在哪里，想起了当天要做的事。
“我是不是已迟到了？”皮埃尔想。“不，大概他不会早于十二点进入莫斯科。”皮埃尔不让自己思考他要做的事，只是要急忙去做。
皮埃尔整理好身上的外套，就抓起手枪准备动身。但此时他第一次想起，应该怎样携带武器在街上行走呢，不能提在手上呀？即使在他那件宽大的长袍下，也难以藏住这支大手枪。无论插在腰带里，还是夹在胁下，都不可能不露马腿。此外，枪是放过的，皮埃尔还来不及上子弹。“横竖一样，就用匕首吧。”皮埃尔对自己说，尽管考虑把计划付诸实施时，他不止一次地认定，一八○九年，那个大学生的主要错误，在于他想用匕首刺杀拿破仑。但是，皮埃尔的主旨似乎不在于完成预想的事情，而在于向自己表明，他并未放弃自己的计划，正在作着一切去完成它。皮埃尔急忙拿起他在苏哈列夫塔楼与手枪一起购得的匕首，一柄装在绿色刀鞘里的有缺口的钝匕首，把它藏在背心下面。
皮埃尔束紧长袍，拉低帽子，尽量不弄出声来，避免碰到上尉，穿过走廊到了大街上。
他头天晚上漠然看着的那场大火，一夜之间大大地蔓延开来。莫斯科四面八方都在燃烧。同时烧起来的有马车市场、莫斯科河外区、商场、波瓦尔大街、莫斯科河上的驳船和多罗戈米洛夫桥旁的木材市场。
皮埃尔的路线要经过几条小巷到波瓦尔大街，再到阿尔巴特街上的圣尼古拉教堂，他老早就在其附近设想好一个地点，他的计划就要在那个地点完成。大部分房屋的门窗都已紧闭。大街小巷空寂无人。空气里弥漫着焦糊和烟熏的气味。间或碰到一些神色惊惶不安的俄国人，和走在街心的一付乡下佬和丘八模样的法国人。俄国人和法国佬都惊奇地看皮埃尔。俄国人注视他，除了他那个子高而胖，除了他脸上和全身上下显出古怪、阴沉、神情专注和愁苦的样子之外，还由于分辨不清这人属于何种阶层。法国佬惊奇地目送着皮埃尔，特别是因为，皮埃尔与又怕又好奇地望着法国人的普通俄国人相反，他对法国人根本不屑一顾。在一幢房子的大门口，三名法国人在与听不懂他们话的俄国人交涉着什么事，他们拦住皮埃尔，问他懂不懂法语。
皮埃尔否定地一摇头，又向前走了。在另一条巷子里，守在绿色弹药箱旁的哨兵对他吆喝一声，而皮埃尔只在听到第二次厉声吆喝和哨兵手上的武器弄响以后，方才明白，他得绕到旁边一条街。他对周围的一切既听不见也看不见。他像带着一样可怕的生人的物件，以急迫和恐怖感怀揣自己的计算，生活——昨晚的经验教训了他——把计划给弄丢了。但是，皮埃尔注定不能把自己的情绪完整地维持到他正奔向的地点。而且，即使他不在路上受阻，他的计划也已无从实现，因为四个多小时以前，拿破仑就已从多罗戈米洛夫郊区，经阿尔巴特街进入克里姆林宫，这时，情绪极为阴沉，正坐在克里姆林宫的沙皇办公室内，发布关于立即扑灭大火、禁止抢劫、安定民心的详细而严厉的命令。但皮埃尔是不知道的；他专心致志于自己的事，仍然在受折磨，像执着于知其不可而为之的人们那样受折磨——不是由于重重困难，而是由于天生的其事不当；他受折磨是因为害怕在决定关头软下来，因而失去自尊心。
虽然他看不见也听不见周围的一切，仍凭本能辨明道路，并准确无误地穿过几条小巷子，这些小巷子把他带到了阿瓦尔大街。
随着皮埃尔愈益走近波瓦尔大街，大烟愈来愈浓，大火甚至使这儿的空气变得暖和。间或可以看见巨大的火舌，在屋顶后面龙蛇般飞舞。街道上，人渐渐多起来，而这些人个个惊惶不安。皮埃尔虽也感到周围有某种异常情况，但并不明白他是在走向火灾发生的区域。在他穿过通向一大片空地的小路时（这片空地一边连着波瓦尔大街，另一边连着格鲁津斯基公爵府邸的花园），突然听到身旁一个女人绝望的痛哭声。他止住脚步，好似从梦中醒来，抬起了头。
在小路一侧满是尘土的干枯的野草上，放着一堆家什：鸭绒被、茶炊、神像、箱子等。在地上的箱子旁边，坐着一位已不年轻的瘦女人，长着长长的暴牙，身穿黑色斗篷，戴压发帽。这女人摇晃着身子，一面诉苦，一面恸哭。两个小女孩，十岁到十二岁，各穿一身脏而嫌短的连衣裙、披小斗篷，苍白的惊吓的脸上带着困惑不解的表情，看着她们的母亲。一个小男孩，约七岁，穿一件粗呢外衣，戴一顶别人的大帽子，在老保姆怀里哭。一个光脚、一身很脏的使女坐在箱子上，松开灰白的大辫子，在揪掉烧焦的头发，一边揪一边嗅着。丈夫，个儿不高，背微驼、穿普通文官制服，留一圈络腮胡，平整的鬓角从戴得端正的帽子下露出来，正紧绷着脸翻动摞在一起的箱子，从里面取出些衣服来。
女人一见皮埃尔，几乎投在他脚下。
“亲爱的老爷们，正教徒们，救救我们，帮助我们吧，亲爱的！……你们谁帮帮我们吧，”她嚎啕着哀告，“小女孩！……女儿！……我的小女儿没救出来！给丢下了……她烧死了！呜呜！我白白养了你……呜呜！”
“行了，玛丽亚·尼古拉耶夫娜，”丈夫小声对妻子说，显然不过要在旁人面前替自己辩护，“一定是姐姐把她带走了，否则她能到什么地方去呢！”他补充说。
“木头人，坏蛋！”妻子突然止住哭泣，恶狠狠地大骂。
“你没有心肝，不疼自己的孩子。别人就会把她从火里救出的。这人是木头，而不是人，不是父亲。您是高尚的人，”她抽泣着连珠炮似地对皮埃尔说。“隔壁燃起来了，随即向我们烧来。小姑娘喊了一声：着火了！我们赶紧收拾东西。我们当时穿什么就是什么地逃了出来……这才抢出这么点东西……神像和陪嫁的床，其余的一切都丢了。看看孩子们呢，卡捷奇卡不见了。呜呜！呵，上帝！……”她又放声大哭，“我的心肝宝贝啊，烧死了！烧死了！”
“在哪里呢？她到底在哪里丢失的呢？”皮埃尔问。女人从他热情洋溢的脸上看出，他这人能帮助她。
“老爷！我的亲爹！”她抱住他的腿呼喊，“恩人啊，这下我放心了……阿尼斯卡，去带路，死东西。”她向使女大声呼叫，生气地张着嘴，这就更加露出了她的长门牙。
“带路，带路，我……我……我办得到。”皮埃尔喘着气急忙说。
一身很脏的使女从箱子后面走出来，束好发辫，叹了一口气后，赤足笨拙地沿小路走在前面。皮埃尔仿佛突然从深沉的昏厥中复苏。他更高地昂起头，眼睛里闪耀出生命的光辉，快步地跟随这姑娘而去，赶上了她，走出小路到了波瓦尔大街。满街飘起一团团乌云般的黑烟，有些地方的黑烟里冒出火舌。人们在大火前挤作一团。街心站着一名法国将军，对周围的人讲话。由使女带路的皮埃尔已经走到了将军站的位置附近，但法国士兵挡住他。
“On ne passe pas，”①一个声音向他喊话。
①此处不通行。
“走这边，叔叔！”使女叫道。“我们穿过小巷，从尼库林街穿过去。”皮埃尔转过身来往回走，时时要跳动几下，方能跑得上她。这姑娘跑过街去，向左拐进一条横巷，经过三幢房屋，向右拐进了一家大门。
“在这儿。”这姑娘说，跑过院子，打开了木栅栏的小门，然后停下来，指给皮埃尔看一间不很大的正熊熊燃烧着的木耳房。它的一边已烧塌了，另一边还正燃烧，火焰明晃晃地从窗格和屋顶冲了出来。皮埃尔走进小门，热气便逼得他停下。
“那一间，哪一间是你们的家？”他问。
“哇哇！”这姑娘指出耳房哭了，“就是那间，那就是我们的家。你都烧死了，我们的宝宝，卡捷奇卡，我的乖小姐，哇！”阿尼斯卡对着大火痛哭，觉得不得不表示一番自己的感情。
皮埃尔向耳房靠近，但那热气很猛烈，他不由得围着耳房绕了半圈，来到一座大房子墙下，这房子只有一边的屋顶着火，一群法军士兵在房子附近挤作一团。
皮埃尔开头不明白，这些把什么东西拖来拖去的法国人在干什么；但看到自己面前的那个正用钝佩刀砍一个农民、并抢夺他手里的狐皮大衣时，皮埃尔朦胧觉察到这里在抢劫，但他没功夫想这件事。
墙壁和天花板的断裂声、訇然倒塌声、火焰的呼啸和毕剥声、人们的狂叫呐喊，时而动荡不完的烟云——时而腾空升起，夹杂着明亮的火星，虽烟滚滚闪出道道火光，此处是禾捆状的通红的火柱，彼处是沿着墙蔓延的鱼鳞状的金色火焰——这一切景象，合着热浪和烟味的刺激，行动的迅速，这种种感觉在皮埃尔身上产生了面对火灾常有的兴奋作用。这种作用力特别强烈，则是因为皮埃尔看见这场大火，突然体验到那种从折磨他的思想中解脱的感觉。他觉得自己年轻、愉快、灵活和果断。他从这座房子的一边绕到耳旁后面，正要跑进还没倒塌的部分，这时，他的头顶有几个人在大喊，随后听见哗啦啦的响声，一件笨重的东西砰然一声落在他的脚下。
皮埃尔回头一看，见到窗户里的几个法国人，他们把一个橱柜的抽屉摔了下来，里面盛满一些金属器皿。另一些站在下面的士兵走近这只抽屉。
“Eh bien，qu'est ce qu'il veut celui－lá．”①法国兵中的一个朝皮埃尔喊。
“Un enfant dans cette maison．N'avez vous pas vu un enfant？”②皮埃尔说。
“Tiens，qu'est ce qu'il chante celui－lá？Va te pro－mener．”③上面几个人说，而士兵中的一个，显然害怕皮埃尔想起向他们夺取抽屉里的银铜器皿，气势汹汹地逼近他。
①这人要干什么？
②这屋里有一个小孩。你们没看见小孩吗？
③这人还在唠叨。你见鬼去吧。
“Un enfant？”上面一个法国人喊道，“j'ai entendu piailler quelque chose au jardin．Peut—eAtre c'est son moutard au bonhomme．Faut eAtre humain，voyez vous……”“Ou est—il？Ou est—il？”①皮埃尔问。
“Par ici！Par ici！”②那个法国人从窗户朝下对他喊，同时指着房子后面的花园。“Attendez，je vais descendrBe．”③
一分钟后，那个黑眼睛、面颊上有颗痣的小个子法国人，只穿着衬衫，显然从楼上一个窗口跳出来，拍下皮埃尔肩膀，带他跑向花园。“DépeAchez—vous，vous，autres，”他对他的同伴喊叫，“commence à faire chaud．”④
法国人跑到屋后一条铺着沙子的路上后，拽住皮埃尔的手，向他指了指前面的园场子。一条长凳下面，躺着一个穿粉红连衣裙的三岁小女孩。
“Voilà votre moutard．Ah，une petite，tant mieux，”法国人说。“Au revoir，mon gros．Faut eAtre humain．Nous sommes tous mortels，voyez vous．”⑤那个面颊上有颗痣的法国人朝自己的同伴跑回去了。
①小孩？我听到有个东西在花园里嘤嘤地哭。可能是他的小孩。好吧，应该实行人道。我们都是人……“在那儿？在哪儿？”
②不远，不远！
③等一等，我这就下来。
④哎，你们快一点，热气烘烤过来了。
⑤这就是您的孩子。噢，是女孩，那更好。再会，胖子。对吧，该实行人道，都是人嘛。
皮埃尔高兴得喘不过气来，朝小女孩跑去，想把她抱起来。那个生瘰疠病的像母亲一样难看的小女孩，一见到生人便叫喊起来，飞快跑开。但是皮埃尔抱住她，把她举了起来；她绝望地凶狠地尖叫，并用小手使劲掰开皮埃尔的手，还用她那鼻涕邋遢的嘴咬他的手。这使皮埃尔感到恐怖和厌恶，好比是在摸着一头小野兽似的。但他尽力不让自己扔下小女孩，抱着她跑回那座大房屋。但已不能通过原路返回去：使女阿尼斯卡已不见了，皮埃尔只得怀着遗憾和憎恶的心情，尽可能慈爱地搂住痛哭流涕、打湿了衣裳的小女孩，跑过花园去找寻另一个出口。
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