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Denisov was sitting there scratching with his pen on a sheet of paper. He looked gloomily in Rostov's face and said: "I am witing to her." He leaned his elbows on the table with his pen in his hand and, evidently glad of a chance to say quicker in words what he wanted to write, told Rostov the contents of his letter. "You see, my fwiend," he said, "we sleep when we don't love.
We cannot comprehend either the Emperor's aims or his actions!" "But I never said a word about the Emperor!" said the officer, justifying himself, and unable to understand Rostov's outburst, except on the supposition that he was drunk. But Rostov did not listen to him. "We are not diplomatic officials, we are soldiers and nothing more," he went on. "If we are ordered to die, we must die.
The look of annoyance had already disappeared from Boris' face: having evidently reflected and decided how to act, he very quietly took both Rostov's hands and led him into the next room. His eyes, looking serenely and steadily at Rostov, seemed to be veiled by something, as if screened by blue spectacles of conventionality. So it seemed to Rostov. "Oh, come now!
A short stout man of about thirty, in white breeches and high boots and a batiste shirt that he had evidently only just put on, standing in that room, and his valet was buttoning on to the back of his breeches a new pair of handsome silk-embroidered braces that, for some reason, attracted Rostov's attention. This man was speaking to someone in the adjoining room.
In answer to Rostov's renewed questions, Denisov said, laughing, that he thought he remembered that some other fellow had got mixed up in it, but that it was all nonsense and rubbish, and he did not in the least fear any kind of trial, and that if those scoundrels dared attack him he would give them an answer that they would not easily forget.
"Your excellency," said Rostov, "may I ask a favor?" "What is it?" "Tomorrow our squadron is to be in reserve. May I ask to be attached to the first squadron?" "What's your name?" "Count Rostov." "Oh, very well, you may stay in attendance on me." "Count Ilya Rostov's son?" asked Dolgorukov. But Rostov did not reply. "Then I may reckon on it, your excellency?" "I will give the order."
He indicated the stud farms at which Nicholas might procure horses, recommended to him a horse dealer in the town and a landowner fourteen miles out of town who had the best horses, and promised to assist him in every way. "You are Count Ilya Rostov's son? My wife was a great friend of your mother's.
Oh, how that chord vibrated, and how moved was something that was finest in Rostov's soul! And this something was apart from everything else in the world and above everything in the world. "What were losses, and Dolokhov, and words of honor?... All nonsense! One might kill and rob and yet be happy..." It was long since Rostov had felt such enjoyment from music as he did that day.
Clean and fresh as if you'd been to a fete, not like us sinners of the line," cried Rostov, with martial swagger and with baritone notes in his voice, new to Boris, pointing to his own mud-bespattered breeches. The German landlady, hearing Rostov's loud voice, popped her head in at the door. "Eh, is she pretty?" he asked with a wink. "Why do you shout so? You'll frighten them!" said Boris.
On Rostov's inquiry as to how the matter stood, he at once produced from under his pillow a paper he had received from the commission and the rough draft of his answer to it. He became animated when he began reading his paper and specially drew Rostov's attention to the stinging rejoinders he made to his enemies.
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