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The seconds, measuring the paces, left tracks in the deep wet snow between the place where they had been standing and Nesvitski's and Dolokhov's sabers, which were stuck into the ground ten paces apart to mark the barrier. It was thawing and misty; at forty paces' distance nothing could be seen. For three minutes all had been ready, but they still delayed and all were silent.
Nesvitski's handsome face looked out of the little window. Nesvitski, moving his moist lips as he chewed something, and flourishing his arm, called him to enter. "Bolkonski! Bolkonski!... Don't you hear? Eh? Come quick..." he shouted. Entering the house, Prince Andrew saw Nesvitski and another adjutant having something to eat. They hastily turned round to him asking if he had any news.
I only congratulated them," said Zherkov. "I am not jesting with you; please be silent!" cried Bolkonski, and taking Nesvitski's arm he left Zherkov, who did not know what to say. "Come, what's the matter, old fellow?" said Nesvitski trying to soothe him. "What's the matter?" exclaimed Prince Andrew standing still in his excitement.
Denisov smiled, took out of his sabretache a handkerchief that diffused a smell of perfume, and put it to Nesvitski's nose. "Of course. I'm going into action! I've shaved, bwushed my teeth, and scented myself."
On their familiar faces he read agitation and alarm. This was particularly noticeable on Nesvitski's usually laughing countenance. "Where is the commander in chief?" asked Bolkonski. "Here, in that house," answered the adjutant. "Well, is it true that it's peace and capitulation?" asked Nesvitski. "I was going to ask you. I know nothing except that it was all I could do to get here."
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