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"Oh, yes!" said Pierre. The soldiers stopped. "So you've found your folk?" said one of them. "Well, good-by, Peter Kirilych isn't it?" "Good-by, Peter Kirilych!" Pierre heard the other voices repeat. "Good-by!" he said and turned with his groom toward the inn. "I ought to give them something!" he thought, and felt in his pocket. "No, better not!" said another, inner voice.
"And I tell you Peter Kirilych here will also tell you..." "Nonsense, I tell you. Your mother's milk has hardly dried on your lips and you want to go into the army! There, there, I tell you," and the count moved to go out of the room, taking the papers, probably to reread them in his study before having a nap. "Well, Peter Kirilych, let's go and have a smoke," he said.
As he sat bending greedily over it, helping himself to large spoonfuls and chewing one after another, his face was lit up by the fire and the soldiers looked at him in silence. "Where have you to go to? Tell us!" said one of them. "To Mozhaysk." "You're a gentleman, aren't you?" "Yes." "And what's your name?" "Peter Kirilych." "Well then, Peter Kirilych, come along with us, we'll take you there."
"Prince Golitsyn has engaged a master to teach him Russian. It is becoming dangerous to speak French in the streets." "And how about you, Count Peter Kirilych? If they call up the militia, you too will have to mount a horse," remarked the old count, addressing Pierre. Pierre had been silent and preoccupied all through dinner, seeming not to grasp what was said. He looked at the count.
Petya pulled him by the arm to attract his attention. "Well, what about my plan? Peter Kirilych, for heaven's sake! You are my only hope," said Petya. "Oh yes, your plan. To join the hussars? I'll mention it, I'll bring it all up today." "Well, mon cher, have you got the manifesto?" asked the old count. "The countess has been to Mass at the Razumovskis' and heard the new prayer.
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