“Does it matter how the note is worded, count,” he said, “if the meaning is forcible?”

“My dear fellow, with our five hundred thousand troops, it should be easy to have a good style,” said Count Rastoptchin.

Pierre perceived the point of Count Rastoptchin’s dissatisfaction with the wording of the note.

“I should have thought there were scribblers enough to write it,” said the old prince. “Up in Petersburg they do nothing but write—not notes only, but new laws they keep writing. My Andryusha up there has written a whole volume of new laws for Russia. Nowadays they’re always at it!” And he laughed an unnatural laugh.

The conversation paused for a moment; the old general cleared his throat to draw attention.

“Did you hear of the last incident at the review in Petersburg? Didn’t the new French ambassadors expose themselves!”

“Eh? Yes, I did hear something; he said something awkward in the presence of his majesty.”

“His majesty drew his attention to the grenadier division and the parade march,” pursued the general; “and it seems the ambassador took no notice and had the insolence to say ‘We in France,’ says he, ‘don’t pay attention to such trivial matters.’ The emperor did not vouchsafe him a reply. At the review that followed the emperor, they say, did not once deign to address him.”

Every one was silent; upon this fact which related to the Tsar personally, no criticism could be offered.

“Impudent rogues!” said the old prince. “Do you know Metivier? I turned him out of the house to-day. He was here, he was allowed to come in, in spite of my begging no one should be admitted,” said the old prince, glancing angrily at his daughter. And he told them his whole conversation with the French doctor and his reasons for believing Metivier to be a spy. Though his reasons were very insufficient and obscure, no one raised an objection.

After the meat, champagne was handed round. The guests rose from their places to congratulate the old prince. Princess Marya too went up to him. He glanced at her with a cold, spiteful glance, and offered her his shaven, wrinkled cheek. The whole expression of his face told her that their morning’s conversation was not forgotten, that his resolution still held good, and that it was only owing to the presence of their visitors that he did not tell her so now.

When they went into the drawing-room to coffee, the old men sat together.

Prince Nikolay Andreitch grew more animated, and began to express his views on the impending war. He said that our wars with Bonaparte would be unsuccessful so long as we sought alliances with the Germans and went meddling in European affairs, into which we had been drawn by the Peace of Tilsit. We had no business to fight for Austria or against Austria. Our political interests all lay in the East, and as regards Bonaparte, the one thing was an armed force on the frontier, and a firm policy, and he would never again dare to cross the Russian frontier, as he had done in 1807.

“And how should we, prince, fight against the French!” said Count Rastoptchin. “Can we arm ourselves against our teachers and divinities? Look at our young men, look at our ladies. Our gods are the French, and Paris—our Paradise.”

He began talking more loudly, obviously with the intention of being heard by every one.

“Our fashions are French, our ideas are French, our feelings are French! You have sent Metivier about his business because he’s a Frenchman and a scoundrel, but our ladies are crawling on their hands and knees after him. Yesterday I was at an evening party, and out of five ladies three were Catholics