of French, stood at the
half-open door of the corridor, intending to conceal himself as soon
as the French entered. But the French entered and still Pierre did not
retire--an irresistible curiosity kept him there.

There were two of them. One was an officer--a tall, soldierly, handsome
man--the other evidently a private or an orderly, sunburned, short, and
thin, with sunken cheeks and a dull expression. The officer walked in
front, leaning on a stick and slightly limping. When he had advanced
a few steps he stopped, having apparently decided that these were good
quarters, turned round to the soldiers standing at the entrance, and in
a loud voice of command ordered them to put up the horses. Having done
that, the officer, lifting his elbow with a smart gesture, stroked his
mustache and lightly touched his hat.

"Bonjour, la compagnie!" * said he gaily, smiling and looking about him.

* "Good day, everybody!"

No one gave any reply.

"Vous etes le bourgeois?" * the officer asked Gerasim.

* "Are you the master here?"

Gerasim gazed at the officer with an alarmed and inquiring look.

"Quartier, quartier, logement!" said the officer, looking down at the
little man with a condescending and good-natured smile. "Les francais
sont de bons enfants. Que diable! Voyons! Ne nous fachons pas, mon
vieux!" * added he, clapping the scared and silent Gerasim on the
shoulder. "Well, does no one speak French in this establishment?" he
asked again in French, looking around and meeting Pierre's eyes. Pierre
moved away from the door.

* "Quarters, quarters, lodgings! The French are good
fellows. What the devil! There, don't let us be cross, old
fellow!"

Again the officer turned to Gerasim and asked him to show him the rooms
in the house.

"Master, not here--don't understand... me, you..." said Gerasim, trying
to render his words more comprehensible by contorting them.

Still smiling, the French officer spread out his hands before Gerasim's
nose, intimating that he did not understand him either, and moved,
limping, to the door at which Pierre was standing. Pierre wished to go
away and conceal himself, but at that moment he saw Makar Alexeevich
appearing at the open kitchen door with the pistol in his hand. With
a madman's cunning, Makar Alexeevich eyed the Frenchman, raised his
pistol, and took aim.

"Board them!" yelled the tipsy man, trying to press the trigger. Hearing
the yell the offi