“Prince Andrew's? We shall pass it and I'll take you to him.”
“What about the left flank?” asked Pierre.
“To tell you the truth, between ourselves, God only knows what state our left flank is in,” said Borís confidentially lowering his voice. “It is not at all what Count Bennigsen intended. He meant to fortify that knoll quite differently, but. . .” Borís shrugged his shoulders, “his Serene Highness would not have it, or someone persuaded him. You see. . .” but Borís did not finish, for at that moment Kaysárov, Kutúzov's adjutant, came up to Pierre. “Ah, Kaysárov!” said Borís, addressing him with an unembarrassed smile, “I was just trying to explain our position to the count. It is amazing how his Serene Highness could so foresee the intentions of the French!”
“You mean the left flank?” asked Kaysárov.
“Yes, exactly; the left flank is now extremely strong.”
Though Kutúzov had dismissed all unnecessary men from the staff, Borís had contrived to remain at headquarters after the changes. He had established himself with Count Bennigsen, who, like all on whom Borís had been in attendance, considered young Prince Drubetskóy an invaluable man.
In the higher command there were two sharply defined parties: Kutúzov's party and that of Bennigsen, the chief of staff. Borís belonged to the latter and no one else, while showing servile respect to Kutúzov, could so create an impression that the old fellow was not much good and that Bennigsen managed everything. Now the decisive moment of battle had come when Kutúzov would be destroyed and the power pass to Bennigsen, or even if Kutúzov won the battle it would be felt that everything was done by Bennigsen. In any case many great rewards would have to be given for tomorrow's action, and new men would come to the front. So Borís was full of nervous vivacity all day.
After Kaysárov, others whom Pierre knew came up to him, and he had not time to reply to all the questions about Moscow that were showered upon him, or to listen to all that was told him. The faces all expressed animation and apprehension, but it seemed to Pierre that the cause of the excitement shown in some of these faces lay chiefly in questions of personal success; his mind, however, was occupied by the different expression he saw on other faces—an expression that spoke not of personal matters but of the universal questions of life and death. Kutúzov noticed Pierre's figure and the group gathered round him.
“Call him to me,” said Kutúzov.
An adjutant told Pierre of his Serene Highness' wish, and Pierre went toward Kutúzov's bench. But a militiaman got there before him. It was Dólokhov.
“How did that fellow get here?” asked Pierre.
“He's a creature that wriggles in anywhere!” was the answer. “He has been degraded, you know. Now he wants to bob up again. He's been proposing some scheme or other and has crawled into the enemy's picket line at night. . . . He's a brave fellow.”
Pierre took off his hat and bowed respectfully to Kutúzov.
“I concluded that if I reported to your Serene Highness you might send me away or say that you knew what I was reporting, but then I shouldn't lose anything. . .” Dólokhov was saying.
“Yes, yes.”
“But if I were right, I should be rendering a service to my Fatherland for which I am ready to die.”
“Yes, yes.”
“And should your Serene Highness require a man who will not spare his skin, please think of me.. . . Perhaps I may prove useful to your Serene Highness.”
“Yes. . . Yes. . .” Kutúzov repeated, his laughing eye narrowing more and more as he looked at Pierre.
Just then Borís, with his courtierlike adroitness, stepped up to Pierre's side near Kutúzov and in a most natural manner, without raising his voice, said to Pierre, as though continuing an interrupted conversation:
“The militia have put on clean white shirts to be ready to die. What heroism, Count!”
Borís evidently said this to Pierre in order to be overheard by his Serene Highness. He knew Kutúzov's attention would be caught by those words, and so it was.
“What are you saying about the militia?” he asked Borís.
“Preparing for tomorrow, your Serene Highness—for death—they have put on clean shirts.”
“Ah. . . a wonderful, a matchless people!” said Kutúzov; and he closed his eyes and swayed his head. “A matchless people!” he repeated with a sigh.
“So you want to smell gunpowder?” he said to Pierre. “Yes, it's a pleasant smell. I have the honor to be one of your wife's adorers. Is she well? My quarters are at your service.”
