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Denisov lay asleep on his bed with his head under the blanket, though it was nearly noon. "Ah, Wostov? How are you, how are you?" he called out, still in the same voice as in the regiment, but Rostov noticed sadly that under this habitual ease and animation some new, sinister, hidden feeling showed itself in the expression of Denisov's face and the intonations of his voice.
"Ah, Wostov," he cried noticing the cadet's bright face, "you've got it at last." And he smiled approvingly, evidently pleased with the cadet. Rostov felt perfectly happy. Just then the commander appeared on the bridge. Denisov galloped up to him. "Your excellency! Let us attack them! I'll dwive them off."
"Wostov, deah fellow, just see how much there is left and shove the purse undah the pillow," he said, and went out to the quartermaster. Rostov took the money and, mechanically arranging the old and new coins in separate piles, began counting them. "Ah! Telyanin! How d'ye do? They plucked me last night," came Denisov's voice from the next room. "Where?
There was a masculine odor and a smell of tobacco. "Hallo, Gwiska my pipe!" came Vasili Denisov's husky voice. "Wostov, get up!" Rostov, rubbing his eyes that seemed glued together, raised his disheveled head from the hot pillow. "Why, is it late?" "Late! It's nearly ten o'clock," answered Natasha's voice.
"Don't like bowwowing from my own fellows, I don't," growled Denisov. "But if you won't accept money from me like a comrade, you will offend me. Really I have some," Rostov repeated. "No, I tell you." And Denisov went to the bed to get the purse from under the pillow. "Where have you put it, Wostov?" "Under the lower pillow." "It's not there." Denisov threw both pillows on the floor.
Lavrushka turned all the bedding over, looked under the bed and under the table, searched everywhere, and stood still in the middle of the room. Denisov silently watched Lavrushka's movements, and when the latter threw up his arms in surprise saying it was nowhere to be found Denisov glanced at Rostov. "Wostov, you've not been playing schoolboy twicks..."
"A prisoner? You've already been in action? May I speak to him?" "Wostov! Petya!" exclaimed Denisov, having run through the dispatch. "Why didn't you say who you were?" and turning with a smile he held out his hand to the lad. The officer was Petya Rostov.
And all this is not right, it's not right! You may take offense or not but I always stick to mother truth. It's not right!" And the staff captain rose and turned away from Rostov. "That's twue, devil take it!" shouted Denisov, jumping up. "Now then, Wostov, now then!" Rostov, growing red and pale alternately, looked first at one officer and then at the other.
And Nicholas, who had vainly suffered all the dread that precedes a battle and had spent that happy day in inactivity, was all the more depressed. "Come here, Wostov. Let's dwink to dwown our gwief!" shouted Denisov, who had settled down by the roadside with a flask and some food. The officers gathered round Denisov's canteen, eating and talking. "There!
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