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He turned to Kozlovski with urgent questions. "Immediately, Prince," said Kozlovski. "Dispositions for Bagration." "What about capitulation?" "Nothing of the sort. Orders are issued for a battle." Prince Andrew moved toward the door from whence voices were heard.
"To whom shall it be given?" the Emperor Alexander asked Koslovski, in Russian in a low voice. "To whomever Your Majesty commands." The Emperor knit his brows with dissatisfaction and, glancing back, remarked: "But we must give him an answer." Kozlovski scanned the ranks resolutely and included Rostov in his scrutiny. "Can it be me?" thought Rostov.
"But you know the wise maxim your excellency, advising one to expect the worst," said the Austrian general, evidently wishing to have done with jests and to come to business. He involuntarily looked round at the aide-de-camp. "Excuse me, General," interrupted Kutuzov, also turning to Prince Andrew. "Look here, my dear fellow, get from Kozlovski all the reports from our scouts.
From the sound of these voices, the inattentive way Kozlovski looked at him, the disrespectful manner of the exhausted clerk, the fact that the clerk and Kozlovski were squatting on the floor by a tub so near to the commander in chief, and from the noisy laughter of the Cossacks holding the horses near the window, Prince Andrew felt that something important and disastrous was about to happen.
"One can't write so fast, your honor," said the clerk, glancing angrily and disrespectfully at Kozlovski. Through the door came the sounds of Kutuzov's voice, excited and dissatisfied, interrupted by another, an unfamiliar voice.
But among these people Prince Andrew knew how to take his stand so that they respected and even feared him. Coming out of Kutuzov's room into the waiting room with the papers in his hand Prince Andrew came up to his comrade, the aide-de-camp on duty, Kozlovski, who was sitting at the window with a book. "Well, Prince?" asked Kozlovski.
He looked straight at his adjutant's face without recognizing him. "Well, have you finished?" said he to Kozlovski. "One moment, your excellency." Bagration, a gaunt middle-aged man of medium height with a firm, impassive face of Oriental type, came out after the commander in chief. "I have the honor to present myself," repeated Prince Andrew rather loudly, handing Kutuzov an envelope.
He took out a notebook, hurriedly scribbled something in pencil, tore out the leaf, gave it to Kozlovski, stepped quickly to the window, and threw himself into a chair, gazing at those in the room as if asking, "Why do they look at me?"
"Will Your Majesty allow me to consult the colonel?" said Alexander and took a few hasty steps toward Prince Kozlovski, the commander of the battalion. Bonaparte meanwhile began taking the glove off his small white hand, tore it in doing so, and threw it away. An aide-de-camp behind him rushed forward and picked it up.
The unknown general looked disdainfully down at Kozlovski, who was rather short, as if surprised that anyone should not know him. "The commander in chief is engaged," repeated Kozlovski calmly. The general's face clouded, his lips quivered and trembled.
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