Having ridden up the road, on both sides of which French talk could be heard around the campfires, Dolokhov turned into the courtyard of the landowner's house. Having ridden in, he dismounted and approached a big blazing campfire, around which sat several men talking noisily. Something was boiling in a small cauldron at the edge of the fire and a soldier in a peaked cap and blue overcoat, lit up by the fire, was kneeling beside it stirring its contents with a ramrod.
'Oh, he's a hard nut to crack,' said one of the officers who was sitting in the shadow at the other side of the fire.
'He'll make them get a move on, those fellows!' said another, laughing.
Both fell silent, peering out through the darkness at the sound of Dolokhov's and Petya's steps as they advanced to the fire leading their horses.
'Bonjour, messieurs!'* said Dolokhov loudly and clearly.
*'Good day, gentlemen.'
There was a stir among the officers in the shadow beyond the fire, and one tall, long-necked officer, walking round the fire, came up to Dolokhov.
'Is that you, Clement?' he asked. 'Where the devil...?' But, noticing his mistake, he broke off short and, with a frown, greeted Dolokhov as a stranger, asking what he could do for him.
Dolokhov said that he and his companion were trying to overtake their regiment, and addressing the company in general asked whether they knew anything of the 6th Regiment. None of them knew anything, and Petya thought the officers were beginning to look at him and Dolokhov with hostility and suspicion. For some seconds all were silent.
'If you were counting on the evening soup, you have come too late,' said a voice from behind the fire with a repressed laugh.
Dolokhov replied that they were not hungry and must push on farther that night.
He handed the horses over to the soldier who was stirring the pot and squatted down on his heels by the fire beside the officer with the long neck. That officer did not take his eyes from Dolokhov and again asked to what regiment he belonged. Dolokhov, as if he had not heard the question, did not reply, but lighting a short French pipe which he took from his pocket began asking the officer in how far the road before them was safe from Cossacks.
'Those brigands are everywhere,' replied an officer from behind the fire.
Dolokhov remarked that the Cossacks were a danger only to stragglers such as his companion and himself, 'but probably they would not dare to attack large detachments?' he added inquiringly. No one replied.
'Well, now he'll come away,' Petya thought every moment as he stood by the campfire listening to the talk.
But Dolokhov restarted the conversation which had dropped and began putting direct questions as to how many men there were in the battalion, how many battalions, and how many prisoners. Asking about the Russian prisoners with that detachment, Dolokhov said:
'A horrid business dragging these corpses about with one! It would be better to shoot such rabble,' and burst into loud laughter, so strange that Petya thought the French would immediately detect their disguise, and involuntarily took a step back from the campfire.
No one replied a word to Dolokhov's laughter, and a French officer whom they could not see (he lay wrapped in a greatcoat) rose and whispered something to a companion. Dolokhov got up and called to the soldier who was holding their horses.
'Will they bring our horses or not?' thought Petya, instinctively drawing nearer to Dolokhov.
The horses were brought.
'Good evening, gentlemen,' said Dolokhov.
Petya wished to say 'Good night' but could not utter a word. The officers were whispering together. Dolokhov was a long time mounting his horse which would not stand still, then he rode out of the yard at a footpace. Petya rode beside him, longing to look round to see whether or no the French were running after them, but not daring to.
Coming out onto the road Dolokhov did not ride back across the open country, but through the village. At one spot he stopped and listened. 'Do you hear?' he asked. Petya recognized the sound of Russian voices and saw the dark figures of Russian prisoners round their campfires. When they had descended to the bridge Petya and Dolokhov rode past the sentinel, who without saying a word paced morosely up and down it, then they descended into the hollow where the Cossacks awaited them.
'Well now, good-by. Tell Denisov, 'at the first shot at daybreak,'' said Dolokhov and was about to ride away, but Petya seized hold of him.
'Really!' he cried, 'you are such a hero! Oh, how fine, how splendid! How I love you!'
'All right, all right!' said Dolokhov. But Petya did not let go of him and Dolokhov saw through the gloom that Petya was bending toward him and wanted to kiss him. Dolokhov kissed him, laughed, turned his horse, and vanished into the darkness.
CHAPTER X
Having returned to the watchman's hut, Petya found Denisov in the passage. He was awaiting Petya's return in a state of agitation, anxiety, and self-reproach for having let him go.
'Thank God!' he exclaimed. 'Yes, thank God!' he repeated, listening to Petya's rapturous account. 'But, devil take you, I haven't slept because of you! Well, thank God. Now lie down. We can still get a nap before morning.'
'But... no,' said Petya, 'I don't want to sleep yet. Besides I know myself, if I fall asleep it's finished. And then I am used to not sleeping before a battle.'
