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Dolokhov shouted to him from the other room. "I don't want to," answered Anatole continuing to smile. "Come! Balaga is here." Anatole rose and went into the dining room. Balaga was a famous troyka driver who had known Dolokhov and Anatole some six years and had given them good service with his troykas.
Two of the troykas were the usual household sleighs, the third was the old count's with a trotter from the Orlov stud as shaft horse, the fourth was Nicholas' own with a short shaggy black shaft horse. Nicholas, in his old lady's dress over which he had belted his hussar overcoat, stood in the middle of the sleigh, reins in hand.
Bang, bang! went the first sleigh over a cradle hole in the snow of the road, and each of the other sleighs jolted in the same way, and rudely breaking the frost-bound stillness, the troykas began to speed along the road, one after the other. "A hare's track, a lot of tracks!" rang out Natasha's voice through the frost-bound air. "How light it is, Nicholas!" came Sonya's voice.
Zakhar held back his horses and turned his face, which was already covered with hoarfrost to his eyebrows. Nicholas gave the horses the rein, and Zakhar, stretching out his arms, clucked his tongue and let his horses go. "Now, look out, master!" he cried. Faster still the two troykas flew side by side, and faster moved the feet of the galloping side horses. Nicholas began to draw ahead.
"Well, good-by, Matrena," said Anatole, kissing her. "Ah, my revels here are over. Remember me to Steshka. There, good-by! Good-by, Matrena, wish me luck!" "Well, Prince, may God give you great luck!" said Matrena in her gypsy accent. Two troykas were standing before the porch and two young drivers were holding the horses.
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