said nothing to Boris. Obviously unable to restrain himself from uttering the thoughts which were engrossing him at that moment, he addressed Prince Andrey in French.

“Well, my dear fellow, what a battle we have won! God only grant that the one which will be the result of it may be as victorious. I must own, though, my dear fellow,” he said jerkily and eagerly, “my short- comings compared with the Austrians and especially Weierother. What accuracy, what minuteness, what knowledge of the locality, what foresight of every possibility, every condition, of every minutest detail! No, my dear boy, anything more propitious than the circumstance we are placed in could not have been found, if one had arranged it purposely. The union of Austrian exactitude with Russian valour—what could you wish for more?”

“So an attack has been finally decided upon?” said Bolkonsky.

“And do you know, I fancy, Bonaparte really has lost his head. You know that a letter came from him to-day to the Emperor.” Dolgorukov smiled significantly.

“You don’t say so! What does he write?” asked Bolkonsky.

“What can he write? Tradi-ri-di-ra—all simply to gain time. I tell you he’s in our hands; that’s the fact! But the most amusing part of it all,” he said, breaking all at once into a good-natured laugh, “is that they couldn’t think how to address an answer to him. If not ‘consul,’ and of course not ‘emperor,’ it should be ‘general’ Bonaparte, it seemed to me.”

“But between not recognising him as emperor and calling him General Bonaparte, there’s a difference,” said Bolkonsky.

“That’s just the point,” Dolgorukov interrupted quickly, laughing. “You know Bilibin, he’s a very clever fellow; he suggested addressing it, ‘To the Usurper and Enemy of the Human Race,’ ” Dolgorukov chuckled merrily.

“And nothing more?” observed Bolkonsky.

“But still it was Bilibin who found the suitable form of address in earnest. He’s both shrewd and witty…”

“How was it?”

“To the Chief of the French Government: au chef du gouvernement français,” Dolgorukov said seriously and with satisfaction. “That was the right thing, wasn’t it?”

“It was all right, but he will dislike it extremely,” observed Bolkonsky.

“Oh, extremely! My brother knows him; he’s dined more than once with him—nowadays the emperor—in Paris, and used to tell me that he’d never seen a subtler and more crafty diplomat; you know, a combination of French adroitness and the Italian actor-faculty! You know the anecdote about Bonaparte and Count Markov? Count Markov was the only person who knew how to treat him. You know the story of the handkerchief? It’s a gem!” And the talkative Dolgorukov turning from Boris to Prince Andrey told the story of how Bonaparte, to test Markov, our ambassador, had purposely dropped his handkerchief before him, and had stood looking at him, probably expecting Markov to pick it up for him, and how Markov promptly dropped his own beside it, and had picked up his own without touching Bonaparte’s.

“Capital,” said Bolkonsky. “But, prince, I have come to you as a petitioner in behalf of this young friend. You see …” But before Prince Andrey could finish, an adjutant came into the room to summon Prince Dolgorukov to the Emperor.

“Ah, how annoying!” said Dolgorukov, getting up hurriedly and shaking hands with Prince Andrey and Boris. “You know I shall be very glad to do all that depends on me both for you and for this charming


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