“Not Bonaparte. He is the Emperor! Sacré nom …” he said angrily.

“Damnation to him, your Emperor!”

And Dolohov swore a coarse soldier’s oath in Russian, and, shouldering his gun, walked away.

“Come along, Ivan Lukitch,” he said to his captain.

“So that’s how they talk French,” said the soldiers in the line. “Now then, you, Sidorov.” Sidorov winked, and, turning to the French, he fell to gabbling disconnected syllables very rapidly.

“Kari-ma-la-ta-fa-sa-fi-mu-ter-kess-ka,” he jabbered, trying to give the most expressive intonation to his voice.

“Ho, ho, ho! ha ha! ha ha! Oh! oo!” the soldiers burst into a roar of such hearty, good-humoured laughter, in which the French line too could not keep from joining, that after it it seemed as though they must unload their guns, blow up their ammunition, and all hurry away back to their homes. But the guns remained loaded, the port-holes in the houses and earthworks looked out as menacingly as ever, and the cannons, taken off their platforms, confronted one another as before.