Book Fifteen: 1812-13 - Chapter IX

by Leo Tolstoy

　　The fifth company was bivouacking at the very edge of the forest.A huge campfire was blazing brightly in the midst of the snow,lighting up the branches of trees heavy with hoarfrost.

　　About midnight they heard the sound of steps in the snow of theforest, and the crackling of dry branches.

　　"A bear, lads," said one of the men.

　　They all raised their heads to listen, and out of the forest intothe bright firelight stepped two strangely clad human figures clingingto one another.

　　These were two Frenchmen who had been hiding in the forest. Theycame up to the fire, hoarsely uttering something in a language oursoldiers did not understand. One was taller than the other; he wore anofficer's hat and seemed quite exhausted. On approaching the fire hehad been going to sit down, but fell. The other, a short sturdysoldier with a shawl tied round his head, was stronger. He raisedhis companion and said something, pointing to his mouth. Thesoldiers surrounded the Frenchmen, spread a greatcoat on the groundfor the sick man, and brought some buckwheat porridge and vodka forboth of them.

　　The exhausted French officer was Ramballe and the man with hishead wrapped in the shawl was Morel, his orderly.

　　When Morel had drunk some vodka and finished his bowl of porridge hesuddenly became unnaturally merry and chattered incessantly to thesoldiers, who could not understand him. Ramballe refused food andresting his head on his elbow lay silent beside the campfire,looking at the Russian soldiers with red and vacant eyes. Occasionallyhe emitted a long-drawn groan and then again became silent. Morel,pointing to his shoulders, tried to impress on the soldiers the factthat Ramballe was an officer and ought to be warmed. A Russian officerwho had come up to the fire sent to ask his colonel whether he wouldnot take a French officer into his hut to warm him, and when themessenger returned and said that the colonel wished the officer tobe brought to him, Ramballe was told to go. He rose and tried to walk,but staggered and would have fallen had not a soldier standing by heldhim up.

　　"You won't do it again, eh?" said one of the soldiers, winking andturning mockingly to Ramballe.

　　"Oh, you fool! Why talk rubbish, lout that you are- a real peasant!"came rebukes from all sides addressed to the jesting soldier.

　　They surrounded Ramballe, lifted him on the crossed arms of twosoldiers, and carried him to the hut. Ramballe put his arms aroundtheir necks while they carried him and began wailing plaintively:

　　"Oh, you fine fellows, my kind, kind friends! These are men! Oh,my brave, kind friends," and he leaned his head against the shoulderof one of the men like a child.

　　Meanwhile Morel was sitting in the best place by the fire,surrounded by the soldiers.

　　Morel, a short sturdy Frenchman with inflamed and streaming eyes,was wearing a woman's cloak and had a shawl tied woman fashion roundhis head over his cap. He was evidently tipsy, and was singing aFrench song in a hoarse broken voice, with an arm thrown round thenearest soldier. The soldiers simply held their sides as theywatched him.

　　"Now then, now then, teach us how it goes! I'll soon pick it up. Howis it?" said the man- a singer and a wag- whom Morel was embracing.

　　"Vive Henri Quatre! Vive ce roi valiant!" sang Morel, winking. "Cediable a quatre..."*

　　*"Long live Henry the Fourth, that valiant king! That rowdy devil."

　　"Vivarika! Vif-seruvaru! Sedyablyaka!" repeated the soldier,flourishing his arm and really catching the tune.

　　"Bravo! Ha, ha, ha!" rose their rough, joyous laughter from allsides.

　　Morel, wrinkling up his face, laughed too.

　　"Well, go on, go on!"

　　"Qui eut le triple talent, De boire, de battre, Et d'etre un vert galant."**Who had a triple talent

　　For drinking, for fighting,

　　And for being a gallant old boy...

　　"It goes smoothly, too. Well, now, Zaletaev!"

　　"Ke..." Zaletaev, brought out with effort: "ke-e-e-e," he drawled,laboriously pursing his lips, "le-trip-ta-la-de-bu-de-ba, ede-tra-va-ga-la " he sang.

　　"Fine! Just like the Frenchie! Oh, ho ho! Do you want some more toeat?"

　　"Give him some porridge: it takes a long time to get filled up afterstarving."

　　They gave him some more porridge and Morel with a laugh set towork on his third bowl. All the young soldiers smiled gaily as theywatched him. The older men, who thought it undignified to amusethemselves with such nonsense, continued to lie at the opposite sideof the fire, but one would occasionally raise himself on an elbowand glance at Morel with a smile.

　　"They are men too," said one of them as he wrapped himself up in hiscoat. "Even wormwood grows on its own root."

　　"O Lord, O Lord! How starry it is! Tremendous! That means a hardfrost...."

　　They all grew silent. The stars, as if knowing that no one waslooking at them, began to disport themselves in the dark sky: nowflaring up, now vanishing, now trembling, they were busy whisperingsomething gladsome and mysterious to one another.