War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [166]
“Rostov, come here, let’s drink from rief!” shouted Denisov, sitting down by the edge of the road in front of a flask and some food.
The officers gathered in a circle, eating and talking, around Denisov’s mess kit.
“Here they come with another one!” said one of the officers, pointing to a captured French dragoon whom two Cossacks were leading along on foot.
One of them was leading by the bridle the captive’s tall and beautiful French horse.
“Sell me the horse!” Denisov shouted to the Cossack.
“If you like, Your Honor…”
The officers stood up and surrounded the Cossacks and the captured Frenchman. The French dragoon was a young fellow, an Alsatian, who spoke French with a German accent. He was breathless with agitation, his face was red, and, hearing some words of French, he began speaking quickly to the officers, addressing now one, now another. He said that he would not have been taken, that it was not his fault that he was taken, but that of le caporal who had sent him to fetch the horse-cloths, that he had told him the Russians were already there. And to everything he said, he added: “mais qu’on ne fasse pas de mal à mon petit cheval,”*261 and caressed his horse. It was clear that he did not quite understand where he was. He now apologized for being taken, now, supposing he was facing his superiors, displayed his soldierly punctiliousness and zeal for service. He brought with him to our rear guard all the freshness of atmosphere of the French troops, which was so foreign to us.
The Cossacks let the horse go for two gold pieces, and Rostov, who now, having received money, was the richest of the officers, bought it.
“Mais qu’on ne fasse pas de mal à mon petit cheval,” the Alsatian said good-naturedly to Rostov, when the horse was handed over to the hussar.
Rostov, smiling, reassured the dragoon and gave him some money.
“Allee, allee!” said the Cossack, touching the prisoner’s arm to urge him on.
“The sovereign! The sovereign!” was suddenly heard among the hussars.
Everyone began running, hurrying, and Rostov saw behind him on the road several horsemen with white plumes in their hats riding up. In a single moment, everyone was in his place and waiting.
Rostov did not remember and did not feel how he ran to his place and mounted his horse. His regret over his non-participation in the action, his humdrum mood in the circle of usual faces, instantly went away, and all thought of himself instantly vanished: he was wholly consumed by the feeling of happiness that came from the nearness of the sovereign. He felt himself rewarded by this nearness alone for the loss of that day. He was as happy as a lover who has obtained a hoped-for rendezvous. Not daring to turn to look while in line, and not looking, his rapturous senses felt his approach. And he felt it not only from the hoofbeats of the approaching cavalcade, but felt it because as it approached everything around him became brighter, more joyful, more significant, and more festive. This sun moved ever nearer and nearer to Rostov, spreading around itself rays of mild and majestic light, and he already feels himself caught up in those rays, he hears his voice—that gentle, calm, majestic, and at the same time so simple voice. As it had to be, according to Rostov’s feeling, a deathly silence ensued, and in that silence the sounds of the sovereign’s voice rang out.
“Les hussards de Pavlograd?” he said questioningly.
“La réserve, sire!” someone’s voice