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Updated: May 11, 2025
Now he had been sent by Denisov overnight to Shamshevo to capture a "tongue." But whether because he had not been content to take only one Frenchman or because he had slept through the night, he had crept by day into some bushes right among the French and, as Denisov had witnessed from above, had been detected by them.
"I ordered you not to let them eat that Mashka woot stuff!" Denisov was shouting. "And I saw with my own eyes how Lazarchuk bwought some fwom the fields." "I have given the order again and again, your honor, but they don't obey," answered the quartermaster. Rostov lay down again on his bed and thought complacently: "Let him fuss and bustle now, my job's done and I'm lying down capitally!"
"What relation are you to Intendant General Kiril Andreevich Denisov?" asked Kutuzov, interrupting him. "He is my uncle, your Sewene Highness." "Ah, we were friends," said Kutuzov cheerfully. "All right, all right, friend, stay here at the staff and tomorrow we'll have a talk." With a nod to Denisov he turned away and put out his hand for the papers Konovnitsyn had brought him.
When Denisov had come to Pokrovsk at the beginning of his operations and had as usual summoned the village elder and asked him what he knew about the French, the elder, as though shielding himself, had replied, as all village elders did, that he had neither seen nor heard anything of them.
Nicholas Rostov experienced this blissful condition to the full when, after 1807, he continued to serve in the Pavlograd regiment, in which he already commanded the squadron he had taken over from Denisov.
When it came to Natasha's turn to choose a partner, she rose and, tripping rapidly across in her little shoes trimmed with bows, ran timidly to the corner where Denisov sat. She saw that everybody was looking at her and waiting. Nicholas saw that Denisov was refusing though he smiled delightedly. He ran up to them. "Please, Vasili Dmitrich," Natasha was saying, "do come!"
And evidently suppressing his vexation with difficulty, he turned away from the boy. "You ought not to have been here at all," he said. The conversation at supper was not about politics or societies, but turned on the subject Nicholas liked best recollections of 1812. Denisov started these and Pierre was particularly agreeable and amusing about them.
At times a sort of mist descended, and then suddenly heavy slanting rain came down. Denisov in a felt cloak and a sheepskin cap from which the rain ran down was riding a thin thoroughbred horse with sunken sides. Like his horse, which turned its head and laid its ears back, he shrank from the driving rain and gazed anxiously before him. His thin face with its short, thick black beard looked angry.
Having cleared the way Denisov stopped at the end of the bridge. Carelessly holding in his stallion that was neighing and pawing the ground, eager to rejoin its fellows, he watched his squadron draw nearer.
But the firing and shouting did not relate to them. Down below, a man wearing something red was running through the marsh. The French were evidently firing and shouting at him. "Why, that's our Tikhon," said the esaul. "So it is! It is!" "The wascal!" said Denisov. "He'll get away!" said the esaul, screwing up his eyes.
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