War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [676]
Denisov’s horse, swerving around a puddle that was in its way, pulled to the side and bumped its rider’s knee against a tree.
“Ah, the devil!” Denisov cried angrily and, baring his teeth, he gave his horse three strokes of the whip, splashing himself and his comrades with mud. Denisov was in a foul mood because of the rain, and because he was hungry (no one had eaten anything since morning), and above all because there was no word from Dolokhov and the man sent to take a prisoner had not come back.
“There could hardly be another such occasion as today for attacking the transport. To attack alone is too risky, but put it off to another day and some bigger party will snatch the booty right from under our noses,” thought Denisov, constantly glancing ahead, hoping to see the expected messenger from Dolokhov.
Emerging into a clearing, where one could see far to the right, Denisov stopped.
“Somebody’s coming,” he said.
The esaul looked in the direction in which Denisov was pointing.
“There are two coming—an officer and a Cossack. Only it’s not presupposable that it’s the lieutenant colonel himself,” said the esaul, who liked to use words unknown to the Cossacks.
The riders descended the hill, disappeared from sight, and reappeared in a few minutes. In front, at a weary gallop, applying his whip, rode an officer—disheveled, soaked through, his trousers bunched up above his knees. Behind him, standing in the stirrups, trotted a Cossack. This officer, a very young boy with a broad, red-cheeked face and quick, merry eyes, galloped up to Denisov and handed him a wet envelope.
“From the general,” said the officer, “sorry it’s not quite dry…”
Denisov, frowning, took the envelope and began to open it.
“They keep saying it’s dangerous, dangerous,” said the officer, turning to the esaul, while Denisov read the letter handed to him. “Anyhow, me and Komarov,” he pointed to the Cossack, “are ready. Each of us has two pist…But what’s that?” he asked, seeing the French drummer boy. “A prisoner? You’ve already been in battle? Can I talk to him?”
“Rostov! Petya!” Denisov cried out just then, having looked through the envelope handed to him. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” And Denisov turned with a smile and gave the officer his hand.
This officer was Petya Rostov.
On the way there, Petya had been preparing the way he, as a grown man and an officer, without hinting at their former acquaintance, would behave with Denisov. But as soon as Denisov smiled at him, Petya at once beamed, blushed for joy, and, forgetting his prepared officialness, began to tell how he had ridden past the French, and how glad he was that he had been given such an errand, and that he had already been in battle at Vyazma, and that a certain hussar had distinguished himself there.
“Well, I’m very glad to see you,” Denisov interrupted him, and his face again assumed a preoccupied expression.
“Mikhail Feoklitych,” he turned to the esaul, “this one is from the German again. He’s attached to him.” And Denisov told the esaul that the content of the letter just brought consisted of a repeated request to join him in attacking the transport. “If we don’t take it tomorrow, they’ll snatch it from under our noses,” he concluded.
While Denisov was talking with the esaul, Petya, abashed by Denisov’s cold tone and supposing that the cause of it was the state of his trousers, was straightening them under his greatcoat, so that no one would notice, trying to look as martial as possible.
“Will there be any orders from Your Honor?” he said to Denisov, putting his hand to his visor and returning again to the game of adjutant and general which he had prepared for, “or shall I stay with Your Honor?”
“Orders?…” Denisov said pensively. “But can you stay till tomorrow?”
“Ah, please…May I stay with you?” cried Petya.
“And exactly what did the general tell you—to return at once?” asked Denisov. Petya blushed.
“He didn’t tell me anything. I think I can?” he said questioningly.
“Well, all right,” said Denisov. And turning to his subordinates, he gave instructions