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“I might ask,” he thought, “but they’ll say: ‘He’s a boy himself and so he pities the boy.’ I’ll show them tomorrow whether I’m a boy. Will it seem odd if I ask?” Ptya thought. “Well, never mind!” and immediately, blushing and looking anxiously at the officers to see if they appeared ironical, he said:
“May I call in that boy who was taken prisoner and give him something to eat?... Perhaps...”
“Yes, he’s a poor little fellow,” said Densov, who evidently saw nothing shameful in this reminder. “Call him in. His name is Vincent Bosse. Have him fetched.”
“I’ll call him,” said Ptya.
“Yes, yes, call him. A poor little fellow,” Densov repeated.
Ptya was standing at the door when Densov said this. He slipped in between the officers, came close to Densov, and said:
“Let me kiss you, dear old fellow! Oh, how fine, how splendid!”
And having kissed Densov he ran out of the hut.
“Bosse! Vincent!” Ptya cried, stopping outside the door.
“Who do you want, sir?” asked a voice in the darkness.
Ptya replied that he wanted the French lad who had been captured that day.
“Ah, Vesnny?” said a Cossack.
Vincent, the boy’s name, had already been changed by the Cossacks into Vesnny (vernal) and into Vesnya by the peasants and soldiers. In both these adaptations the reference to spring (vesn) matched the impression made by the young lad.
“He is warming himself there by the bonfire. Ho, Vesnya! Vesnya!—Vesnny!” laughing voices were heard calling to one another in the darkness.
“He’s a smart lad,” said an hussar standing near Ptya. “We gave him something to eat a while ago. He was awfully hungry!”
The sound of bare feet splashing through the mud was heard in the darkness, and the drummer boy came to the door.
“Ah, c’est vous!” said Ptya. “Voulez-vous manger? N’ayez pas peur, on ne vous fera pas de mal,” * he added shyly and affectionately, touching the boy’s hand. “Entrez, entrez.” *(2)
* “Ah, it’s you! Do you want something to eat? Don’t be
afraid, they won’t hurt you.”
* (2) “Come in, come in.”
“Merci, monsieur,” * said the drummer boy in a trembling almost childish voice, and he began scraping his dirty feet on the threshold.
* “Thank you, sir.”
There were many things Ptya wanted to say to the drummer boy, but did not dare to. He stood irresolutely beside him in the passage. Then in the darkness he took the boy’s hand and pressed it.
“Come in, come in!” he repeated in a gentle whisper. “Oh, what can I do for him?” he thought, and opening the door he let the boy pass in first.
When the boy had entered the hut, Ptya sat down at a distance from him, considering it beneath his dignity to pay attention to him. But he fingered the money in his pocket and wondered whether it would seem ridiculous to give some to the drummer boy.
The arrival of Dlokhov diverted Ptya’s attention from the drummer boy, to whom Densov had had some mutton and vodka given, and whom he had had dressed in a Russian coat so that he might be kept with their band and not sent away with the other prisoners. Ptya had heard in the army many stories of Dlokhov’s extraordinary bravery and of his cruelty to the French, so from the moment he entered the hut Ptya did not take his eyes from him, but braced himself up more and more and held his head high, that he might not be unworthy even of such company.
Dlokhov’s appearance amazed Ptya by its simplicity.
Densov wore a Cossack coat, had a beard, had an icon of Nicholas the Wonder-Worker on his breast, and his way of speaking and everything he did indicated his unusual position. But Dlokhov, who in Moscow had worn a Persian costume, had now the appearance of a most correct officer of the Guards. He was clean-shaven and wore a Guardsman’s padded coat with an Order of St. George at his buttonhole and a plain forage cap set straight on his head. He took off his wet felt cloak in a corner of the room, and without greeting anyone went up to Densov and began questioning him about the matter in hand. Densov told him of the designs the large detachments had on the transport, of the message Ptya had brought, and his own replies to both generals. Then he told him all he knew of the French detachment.
“That’s so. But we must know what troops they are and their numbers,” said Dlokhov. “It will be necessary to go there. We can’t start the affair without knowing for certain how many there are. I like to work accurately. Here now—wouldn’t one of these gentlemen like to ride over to the French camp with me? I have brought a spare uniform.”
“I, I... I’ll go with you!” cried Ptya.
“There’s no need for you to go at all,” said Densov, addressing Dlokhov, “and as for him, I won’t let him go on any account.”
“I like that!” exclaimed Ptya. “Why shouldn’t I go?”
“Because it’s useless.”
“Well, you must excuse me, because... because... I shall go, and that’s all. You’ll take me, won’t you?” he said, turning to Dlokhov.
“Why not?” Dlokhov answered absently, scrutinizing the face of the French drummer boy. “Have you had that youngster with you long?” he asked Densov.
“He was taken today but he knows nothing. I’m keeping him with me.”
“Yes, and where do you put the others?” inquired Dlokhov.
“Where? I send them away and take a weceipt for them,” shouted Densov, suddenly flushing. “And I say boldly that I have not a single man’s life on my conscience. Would it be difficult for you to send thirty or thwee hundwed men to town under escort, instead of staining—I speak bluntly—staining the honor of a soldier?”
“That kind of amiable talk would be suitable from this young count of sixteen,” said Dlokhov with cold irony, “but it’s time for you to drop it.”
“Why, I’ve not said anything! I only say that I’ll certainly go with you,” said Ptya shyly.
“But for you and me, old fellow, it’s time to drop these amenities,” continued Dlokhov, as if he found particular pleasure in speaking of this subject which irritated Densov. “Now, why have you kept this lad?” he went on, swaying his head. “Because you are sorry for him! Don’t we know those ‘receipts’ of yours? You send a hundred men away, and thirty get there. The rest either starve or get killed. So isn’t it all the same not to send them?”
