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ment to the Rostovs that he should remain in Moscow；—all would have been devoid of meaning； would have been indeed absurd and laughable （a point to which Pierre was sensitive） if after all that he had simply gone out of Moscow like other people。
Pierre’s physical state； as is always the case； corresponded with his moral condition。 The coarse fare to which he was unused； the vodka he drank during those days； the lack of wine and cigars； his dirty； unchanged linen； and two half…sleepless nights； spent on a short sofa without bedding； all reduced Pierre to a state of nervous irritability bordering on madness。
It was two o’clock in the afternoon。 The French had already entered Moscow。 Pierre knew this； but instead of acting； he only brooded over his enterprise； going over all the minutest details of it。 In his dreams Pierre never clearly pictured the very act of striking the blow； nor the death of Napoleon； but with extraordinary vividness and mournful enjoyment dwelt on his own end and his heroic fortitude。
“Yes； one man for all； I must act or perish！” he thought。 “Yes； I will approach … and then all at once … with a pistol or a dagger！” thought Pierre。 “But that doesn’t matter。 It’s not I but the Hand of Providence punishes you。… I shall say” （Pierre pondered over the words he would utter as he killed Napoleon）。 “Well； take me； execute me！” Pierre would murmur to himself； bowing his head with a sad but firm expression on his face。
While Pierre was standing in the middle of the room； musing in this fashion； the door of the study opened； and Makar Alexyevitch—always hitherto so timid—appeared in the doorway； completely transformed。
His dressing…gown was hanging open。 His face was red and distorted。 He was unmistakably drunk。 On seeing Pierre he was for the first minute disconcerted； but observing discomfiture in Pierre’s face too； he was at once emboldened by it； and with his thin； tottering legs walked into the middle of the room。
“They have grown fearful；” he said； in a husky and confidential voice。 “I say： I will not surrender； I say … eh； sir？” He paused and suddenly catching sight of the pistol on the table； snatched it with surprising rapidity and ran out into the corridor。
Gerasim and the porter； who had followed Makar Alexyevitch； stopped him in the vestibule； and tried to get the pistol away from him。 Pierre coming out of the study looked with repugnance and compassion at the half…insane old man。 Makar Alexyevitch； frowning with effort； succeeded in keeping the pistol； and was shouting in a husky voice； evidently imagining some heroic scene。
“To arms！ Board them！ You shan’t get it！” he was shouting。
“Give over； please； give over。 Do me the favour； sir； please be quiet。 There now； if you please； sir； …” Gerasim was saying； cautiously trying to steer Makar Alexyevitch by his elbows towards the door。
“Who are you？ Bonaparte！…” yelled Makar Alexyevitch。
“That’s not the thing； sir。 You come into your room and rest a little。 Let me have the pistol now。”
“Away； base slave！ Don’t touch me！ Do you see？” screamed Makar Alexyevitch； brandishing the pistol。 “Run them down！”
“Take hold！” Gerasim whispered to the porter。
They seized Makar Alexyevitch by the arms and dragged him towards the door。
The vestibule was filled with the unseemly sounds of scuffling and drunken； husky gasping。
Suddenly a new sound； a shrill； feminine shriek； was heard from the porch； and the cook ran into the vestibule。
“They！ Merciful heavens！ … My goodness； here they are！ Four of them； horsemen！” she screamed。
Gerasim and the porter let Makar Alexyevitch go； and in the hush that followed in the corridor they could distinctly hear several hands knocking at the front door。
Chapter 28
HAVING INWARDLY RESOLVED that until the execution of his design； he ought to disguise his station and his knowledge of French； Pierre stood at the half…open door into the corridor； intending to conceal himself at once as soon as the French entered。 But the French entered； and Pierre did not leave the door； and irresistible curiosity kept him there。
There were two of them。 One—an officer； a tall； handsome man of gallant bearing； the other； obviously a soldier or officer’s servant； a squat； thin； sunburnt man； with hollow cheeks and a dull expression。 The officer walked first； limping and leaning on a stick。 After advancing a few steps； the officer apparently making up his mind that these would be good quarters； stopped； turned round and shouted in a loud； peremptory voice to the soldiers standing in the doorway to put up the horses。 Having done this the officer； with a jaunty gesture； crooking his elbow high in the air； stroked his moustaches and put his hand to his hat。
“Bonjour； la compagnie！” he said gaily； smiling and looking about him。
No one made any reply。
“Vous êtes le bourgeois？” the officer asked； addressing Gerasim。
Gerasim looked back with scared inquiry at the officer。
“Quartire； quartire； logement；” said the officer； looking down with a condescending and good…humoured smile at the little man。 “The French are good lads。 Don’t let us be cross； old fellow；” he went on in French； clapping the scared and mute Gerasim on the shoulder。 “I say； does no one speak French in this establishment？” he added； looking round and meeting Pierre’s eyes。 Pierre withdrew from the door。
The officer turned again to Gerasim。 He asked him to show him over the house。
“Master not here—no understand … me you …” said Gerasim； trying to make his words more comprehensible by saying them in reverse order。
The French officer； smiling； waved his hands in front of Gerasim’s nose； to give him to understand that he too failed to understand him； and walked with a limp towards the door where Pierre was standing。 Pierre was about to retreat to conceal himself from him； but at that very second he caught sight of Makar Alexyevitch peeping out of the open kitchen door with a pistol in his hand。 With a madman’s cunning； Makar Alexyevitch eyed the Frenchmen； and lifting the pistol； took aim。 “Run them down！！！” yelled the drunkard； pressing the trigger。 The French officer turned round at the scream； and at the same instant Pierre dashed at the drunken man。 Just as Pierre snatched at the pistol and jerked it up； Makar Alexyevitch succeeded at last in pressing the trigger； and a deafening shot rang out； wrapping every one in a cloud of smoke。 The Frenchman turned pale and rushed back to the door。
Forgetting his intention of concealing his knowledge of French； Pierre pulled away the pistol； and throwing it on the ground； ran to the officer and addressed him in French。 “You are not wounded？” he said。
“I think not；” answered the officer； feeling himself； “but I have had a narrow escape this time；” he added； pointing to the broken plaster in the wall。
“Who is this man？” he asked； looking sternly at Pierre。
“Oh； I am really in despair at what has happened；” said Pierre quickly； quite forgetting his part。 “It is a madman； an unhappy creature； who did not know what he was doing。”
The officer went up to Makar Alexyevitch and took him by the collar。
Makar Alexyevitch pouting out his lips； nodded； as he leaned