“Gentlemen, this is idiocy; he’ll be killed,” said this more sensible man.

Anatole stopped him.

“Don’t touch him; you’ll startle him and he’ll be killed. Eh?…What then, eh?”

Dolohov turned, balancing himself, and again spreading his hands out.

“If any one takes hold of me again,” he said, letting his words drop one by one through his thin, tightly compressed lips, “I’ll throw him down from here. Now…”

Saying “now,” he turned again, let his hands drop, took the bottle and put it to his lips, bent his head back and held his disengaged hand upwards to keep his balance. One of the footmen who had begun clearing away the broken glass, stopped still in a stooping posture, his eyes fixed on the window and Dolohov’s back. Anatole stood upright, with wide-open eyes. The Englishman stared from one side, pursing up his lips. The man who had tried to stop it, had retreated to the corner of the room, and lay on the sofa with his face to the wall. Pierre hid his face, and a smile strayed forgotten upon it, though it was full of terror and fear. All were silent. Pierre took his hands from his eyes; Dolohov was still sitting in the same position, only his head was so far bent back that his curls touched his shirt collar, and the hand with the bottle rose higher and higher, trembling with evident effort. Evidently the bottle was nearly empty, and so was tipped higher, throwing the head back. “Why is it so long?” thought Pierre. It seemed to him that more than half an hour had passed. Suddenly Dolohov made a backward movement of the spine, and his arm trembled nervously; this was enough to displace his whole body as he sat on the sloping projection. He moved all over, and his arm and head trembled still more violently with the strain. One hand rose to clutch at the window-ledge, but it dropped again. Pierre shut his eyes once more, and said to himself that he would never open them again. Suddenly he was aware of a general stir about him. He glanced up, Dolohov was standing on the window-ledge, his face was pale and full of merriment.

“Empty!”

He tossed the bottle to the Englishman, who caught it neatly. Dolohov jumped down from the window. He smelt very strongly of rum.

“Capital! Bravo! That’s something like a bet. You’re a devil of a fellow!” came shouts from all sides.

The Englishman took out his purse and counted out the money. Dolohov frowned and did not speak. Pierre dashed up to the window.

“Gentlemen. Who’ll take a bet with me? I’ll do the same!” he shouted suddenly. “I don’t care about betting; see here, tell them to give me a bottle. I’ll do it.…Tell them to give it here.”

“Let him, let him!” said Dolohov, smiling.

“What, are you mad? No one would let you. Why, you turn giddy going downstairs,” various persons protested.

“I’ll drink it; give me the bottle of rum,” roared Pierre, striking the table with a resolute, drunken gesture, and he climbed into the window. They clutched at his arms; but he was so strong that he shoved every one far away who came near him.

“No, there’s no managing him like that,” said Anatole. “Wait a bit, I’ll get round him.…Listen, I’ll take your bet, but for to-morrow, for we’re all going on now to…”

“Yes, come along,” shouted Pierre, “come along.…And take Mishka with us.”…And he caught hold of the bear, and embracing it and lifting it up, began waltzing round the room with it.