Berg put on a spotless clean coat, brushed his lovelocks upwards before the looking-glass, in the fashion worn by the Tsar Alexander Pavlovitch, and having assured himself from Rostov’s expression that his coat had been observed, he went out of the room with a bland smile.

“Ah, what a beast I am, though,” said Rostov, as he read the letter.

“Oh, why?”

“Ah, what a pig I’ve been, never once to have written and to have given them such a fright. Ah, what a pig I am!” he repeated, flushing all at once. “Well, did you send Gavrila for some wine? That’s right, let’s have some!” said he.

With the letters from his family there had been inserted a letter of recommendation to Prince Bagration, by Anna Mihalovna’s advice, which Countess Rostov had obtained through acquaintances, and had sent to her son, begging him to take it to its address, and to make use of it.

“What nonsense! Much use to me,” said Rostov, throwing the letter under the table.

“What did you throw that away for?” asked Boris.

“It’s a letter of recommendation of some sort; what the devil do I want with a letter like that!”

“What the devil do you want with it?” said Boris, picking it up and reading the address; “that letter would be of great use to you.”

“I’m not in want of anything, and I’m not going to be an adjutant to anybody.”

“Why not?” asked Boris.

“A lackey’s duty.”

“You are just as much of an idealist as ever, I see,” said Boris, shaking his head.

“And you’re just as much of a diplomat. But that’s not the point. … Come, how are you?” asked Rostov.

“Why, as you see. So far everything’s gone well; but I’ll own I should be very glad to get a post as adjutant, and not to stay in the line.”

“What for?”

“Why, because if once one goes in for a military career, one ought to try to make it as successful a career as one can.”

“Oh, that’s it,” said Rostov, unmistakably thinking of something else. He looked intently and inquiringly into his friend’s eyes, apparently seeking earnestly the solution of some question.

Old Gavrila brought in the wine.

“Shouldn’t we send for Alphonse Karlitch now?” said Boris. “He’ll drink with you, but I can’t.”

“Send for him, send for him. Well, how do you get on with the Teuton?” said Rostov, with a contemptuous smile.

“He’s a very, very nice, honest, and pleasant fellow,” said Boris.

Rostov looked intently into Boris’s face once more and he sighed. Berg came back, and over the bottle the conversation between the three officers became livelier. The guardsmen told Rostov about their