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(
The
captain
of
whom
the
corporal
spoke
often
had
long
chats
with
Pierre
and
showed
him
all
sorts
of
favors
.
)
"'
You
see
,
St.
Thomas
,
'
he
said
to
me
the
other
day
.
'
Monsieur
Kiril
is
a
man
of
education
,
who
speaks
French
.
He
is
a
Russian
seigneur
who
has
had
misfortunes
,
but
he
is
a
man
.
He
knows
what
's
what
...
If
he
wants
anything
and
asks
me
,
he
wo
n't
get
a
refusal
.
When
one
has
studied
,
you
see
,
one
likes
education
and
well-bred
people
.
'
It
is
for
your
sake
I
mention
it
,
Monsieur
Kiril
.
The
other
day
if
it
had
not
been
for
you
that
affair
would
have
ended
ill
.
"
And
after
chatting
a
while
longer
,
the
corporal
went
away
.
(
The
affair
he
had
alluded
to
had
happened
a
few
days
before
--
a
fight
between
the
prisoners
and
the
French
soldiers
,
in
which
Pierre
had
succeeded
in
pacifying
his
comrades
.
)
Some
of
the
prisoners
who
had
heard
Pierre
talking
to
the
corporal
immediately
asked
what
the
Frenchman
had
said
.
While
Pierre
was
repeating
what
he
had
been
told
about
the
army
leaving
Moscow
,
a
thin
,
sallow
,
tattered
French
soldier
came
up
to
the
door
of
the
shed
.
Rapidly
and
timidly
raising
his
fingers
to
his
forehead
by
way
of
greeting
,
he
asked
Pierre
whether
the
soldier
Platoche
to
whom
he
had
given
a
shirt
to
sew
was
in
that
shed
.
A
week
before
the
French
had
had
boot
leather
and
linen
issued
to
them
,
which
they
had
given
out
to
the
prisoners
to
make
up
into
boots
and
shirts
for
them
.
"
Ready
,
ready
,
dear
fellow
!
"
said
Karatáev
,
coming
out
with
a
neatly
folded
shirt
.
Karatáev
,
on
account
of
the
warm
weather
and
for
convenience
at
work
,
was
wearing
only
trousers
and
a
tattered
shirt
as
black
as
soot
.
His
hair
was
bound
round
,
workman
fashion
,
with
a
wisp
of
lime-tree
bast
,
and
his
round
face
seemed
rounder
and
pleasanter
than
ever
.
"
A
promise
is
own
brother
to
performance
!
I
said
Friday
and
here
it
is
,
ready
,
"
said
Platón
,
smiling
and
unfolding
the
shirt
he
had
sewn
.
The
Frenchman
glanced
around
uneasily
and
then
,
as
if
overcoming
his
hesitation
,
rapidly
threw
off
his
uniform
and
put
on
the
shirt
.
He
had
a
long
,
greasy
,
flowered
silk
waistcoat
next
to
his
sallow
,
thin
bare
body
,
but
no
shirt
.
He
was
evidently
afraid
the
prisoners
looking
on
would
laugh
at
him
,
and
thrust
his
head
into
the
shirt
hurriedly
.
None
of
the
prisoners
said
a
word
.
"
See
,
it
fits
well
!
"
Platón
kept
repeating
,
pulling
the
shirt
straight
.
