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f at some amusing notion。
“Charming fellow the colonel of these Würtembergers；” he said all at once。 “He’s a German； but a good fellow if ever there was one。 But a German。”
He sat down facing Pierre。
“By the way； you know German？”
Pierre looked at him in silence。
“How do you say ‘asile’ in German？”
“Asile？” repeated Pierre。 “Asile in German is Unterkunft。”
“What do you say？” the captain queried quickly and doubtfully。
“Unterkunft；” repeated Pierre。
“Onterkoff；” said the captain； and for several seconds he looked at Pierre with his laughing eyes。 “The Germans are awful fools； aren’t they； M。 Pierre？” he concluded。
“Well； another bottle of this Moscow claret； eh？ Morel； warm us another bottle！” the captain shouted gaily。
Morel brought candles and a bottle of wine。 The captain looked at Pierre in the candle…light； and was obviously struck by the troubled face of his companion。 With genuine regret and sympathy in his face； Ramballe approached Pierre； and bent over him。
“Eh； we are sad！” he said； touching Pierre on the hand。 “Can I have hurt you？ No； really； have you anything against me？” he questioned。 “Perhaps it is owing to the situation of affairs？”
Pierre made no reply； but looked cordially into the Frenchman’s eyes。 This expression of sympathy was pleasant to him。
“My word of honour； to say nothing of what I owe you； I have a liking for you。 Can I do anything for you？ Dispose of me。 It is for life and death。 With my hand and my heart； I say so；” he said； slapping himself on the chest。
“Thank you；” said Pierre。 The captain gazed at Pierre as he had gazed at him when he learnt the German for “refuge；” and his face suddenly brightened。
“Ah； in that case； I drink to our friendship；” he cried gaily； pouring out two glasses of wine。
Pierre took the glass and emptied it。 Ramballe emptied his； pressed Pierre’s hand once more； and leaned his elbow on the table in a pose of pensive melancholy。
“Yes； my dear friend； such are the freaks of fortune；” he began。 “Who would have said I should be a soldier and captain of dragoons in the service of Bonaparte； as we used to call him。 And yet here I am at Moscow with him。 I must tell you； my dear fellow；” he continued in the mournful and measured voice of a man who intends to tell a long story； “our name is one of the most ancient in France。”
And with the easy and na？ve unreserve of a Frenchman； the captain told Pierre the history of his forefathers； his childhood； boyhood； and manhood； and all his relations； his fortunes； and domestic affairs。 “Ma pauvre mère；” took； of course； a prominent part in this recital。
“But all that is only the setting of life； the real thing is love。 Love！ Eh； M。 Pierre？” he said； warming up。 “Another glass。”
Pierre again emptied his glass； and filled himself a third。
“O women！ women！” and the captain； gazing with moist eyes at Pierre； began talking of love and his adventures with the fair sex。 They were very numerous； as might readily be believed； judging from the officer’s conceited； handsome face and the eager enthusiasm with which he talked of women。 Although all Ramballe’s accounts of his love affairs were characterised by that peculiar nastiness in which the French find the unique charm and poetry of love； the captain told his stories with such genuine conviction that he was the only man who had tasted and known all the sweets of love； and he described the women he had known in such an alluring fashion that Pierre listened to him with curiosity。
It was evident that l’amour the Frenchman was so fond of was neither that low and simple kind of love Pierre had at one time felt for his wife； nor the romantic love； exaggerated by himself； that he felt for Natasha。 For both those kinds of love Ramballe had an equal contempt—one was l’amour des charretiers； the other l’amour des nigauds。 L’amour for which the Frenchman had a weakness consisted principally in an unnatural relation to the woman； and in combinations of monstrous circumstances which lent the chief charm to the feeling。
Thus the captain related the touching history of his love for a fascinating marquise of five…and…thirty； and at the same time for a charming； innocent child of seventeen； the daughter of the fascinating marquise。 The conflict of generosity between mother and daughter； ending in the mother sacrificing herself and offering her daughter in marriage to her lover； even now； though it was a memory in the remote past； moved the captain deeply。 Then he related an episode in which the husband played the part of the lover； and he—the lover—the part of the husband； and several comic episodes among his reminiscences of Germany； where Unterkunft means asile； where the husbands eat cabbage soup； and where the young girls are too flaxen…haired。
The last episode was one in Poland； still fresh in the captain’s memory； and described by him with rapid gestures and a glowing face。 The story was that he had saved the life of a Pole—the episode of saving life was continually cropping up in the captain’s anecdotes—and that Pole had intrusted to his care his bewitching wife； a Parisian in heart； while he himself entered the French service。 The captain had been happy； the bewitching Polish lady had wanted to elope with him； but moved by a magnanimous impulse； the captain had restored the wife to the husband with the words： “I saved your life； and I save your honour。”
As he repeated these words； the captain wiped his eyes and shook himself； as though to shake off the weakness that overcame him at this touching recollection。
As men often do at a late hour at night； and under the influence of wine； Pierre listened to the captain’s stories； and while he followed and understood all he told him； he was also following a train of personal reminiscences which had for some reason risen to his imagination。 As he listened to those love affairs； his own love for Natasha suddenly came into his mind； and going over all the pictures of that love in his imagination； he mentally compared them with Ramballe’s stories。 As he heard the account of the conflict between love and duty； Pierre saw before him every detail of the meeting with the object of his love at the Suharev Tower。 That meeting had not at the time made much impression on him； he had not once thought of it since。 But now it seemed to him that there was something very significant and romantic in that meeting。
“Pyotr Kirillitch； come here； I recognise you”； he could hear her words now； could see her eyes； her smile； her travelling cap； and the curl peeping out below it … and he felt that there was something moving； touching in all that。
When he had finished his tale about the bewitching Polish lady； the captain turned to Pierre with the inquiry whether he had had any similar experience of self…sacrifice for love and envy of a lawful husband。
Pierre； roused by this question； lifted his head and felt an irresistible impulse to give expression to the ideas in his mind。 He began to explain that he looked upon love for woman somewhat differently。 He said he had all his life long loved one woman； and still loved her； and that that woman could never be his。
“Tiens！” said the ca