War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [712]
In the middle of the night, the soldiers of the fifth company had heard footsteps in the snow of the forest and the cracking of twigs.
“That’s a bear, lads,” said one soldier. They all raised their heads and listened, and from the forest two human figures emerged into the bright light of the fire, holding on to each other and strangely dressed.
They were two Frenchmen who had been hiding in the forest. Saying something hoarsely in a language the soldiers did not understand, they came up to the fire. One was taller, wearing an officer’s hat, and looked quite weak. Coming to the fire, he wanted to sit down, but fell to the ground. The other, a small, stocky soldier, his cheeks tied round with a kerchief, was stronger. He lifted up his comrade and, pointing to his mouth, said something. The soldiers surrounded the Frenchmen, laid the sick man on an overcoat, and brought some kasha and vodka for them both.
The weak French officer was Ramballe; the one tied round with a kerchief was his orderly, Morel.
When Morel had drunk some vodka and finished a mess tin of kasha, he suddenly became morbidly merry and began rattling something out to the soldiers, who did not understand him. Ramballe refused to eat and lay silently by the fire, propped on his elbow, looking at the Russian soldiers with vacant red eyes. From time to time he let out a long moan and fell silent again. Morel, pointing to his shoulders, tried to bring it home to the soldiers that this was an officer and that he needed to get warm. A Russian officer who came up to the fire sent to the colonel to ask if he would take in a French officer to get warm; the answer came back that the colonel ordered the officer brought. Ramballe was told to go. He stood up and tried to walk, but staggered and would have fallen if a soldier standing beside him had not supported him.
“What? You don’t want to?” one soldier said, addressing Ramballe with a mocking wink.
“Eh, you fool! Don’t talk nonsense! A lout, a real lout!” reproaches against the joking soldier came from all sides. Ramballe was surrounded, two men made a seat with their hands, picked him up, and carried him into the cottage. Ramballe put his arms around the soldiers’ necks and, as they carried him, kept saying pitifully:
“Oh, mes braves, oh, mes bons, mes bons amis! Voilà des hommes! oh, mes braves, mes bons amis!”*741 and, like a child, he rested his head on one of the men’s shoulders.
Meanwhile Morel was sitting in the best place, surrounded by soldiers.
Morel, a stocky little Frenchman with inflamed, watery eyes, with a kerchief tied woman-like over his cap, was dressed in a woman’s coat. Evidently tipsy, he put his arm around the soldier sitting next to him and sang a French song in a hoarse, faltering voice. The soldiers held their sides, looking at him.
“Come on, come on, teach me, how does it go? I’ll learn it right away. How does it go?…” said the joker-singer whom Morel was embracing.
Vive Henri quatre,
Vive ce roi vaillant…
sang Morel, winking.
Ce diable à quatre…†742
“Vivariká! Vif seruvaru! Sidyablyakà…” the soldier repeated, waving his arm, and indeed catching the motif.
“Well done! Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!…” Coarse, joyful guffawing arose on all sides. Morel, puckering up, also laughed.
“Well, go on, more, more!”
Qui eut le triple talent
De boire, de battre,
Et d’être un vert galant…*743
“That also goes nicely. Well, well, Zaletaev!…”
“Kew…” Zaletaev brought out with effort. “Ke-e-ew…” he drew out, diligently protruding his lips, “letriptala, de bu de ba i detravagala,” he sang.
“Ah, great! There’s a Khrenchman for you! Ho, ho, ho, ho! What, you want more to eat?”
“Give him more kasha; you don’t get full soon when you’re starving.”
They again offered him kasha; and Morel, chuckling, started on his third mess tin. Joyful smiles lingered on the faces of the young soldiers, looking at Morel. The old soldiers, who considered it improper to be taken up with