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"
The
Emperor
!
The
Emperor
!
The
Marshal
!
The
Duke
!
"
and
hardly
had
the
sleek
cavalry
passed
,
before
a
carriage
drawn
by
six
gray
horses
rattled
by
.
Pierre
caught
a
glimpse
of
a
man
in
a
three-cornered
hat
with
a
tranquil
look
on
his
handsome
,
plump
,
white
face
.
It
was
one
of
the
marshals
.
His
eye
fell
on
Pierre
's
large
and
striking
figure
,
and
in
the
expression
with
which
he
frowned
and
looked
away
Pierre
thought
he
detected
sympathy
and
a
desire
to
conceal
that
sympathy
.
The
general
in
charge
of
the
stores
galloped
after
the
carriage
with
a
red
and
frightened
face
,
whipping
up
his
skinny
horse
.
Several
officers
formed
a
group
and
some
soldiers
crowded
round
them
.
Their
faces
all
looked
excited
and
worried
.
"
What
did
he
say
?
What
did
he
say
?
"
Pierre
heard
them
ask
.
While
the
marshal
was
passing
,
the
prisoners
had
huddled
together
in
a
crowd
,
and
Pierre
saw
Karatáev
whom
he
had
not
yet
seen
that
morning
.
He
sat
in
his
short
overcoat
leaning
against
a
birch
tree
.
On
his
face
,
besides
the
look
of
joyful
emotion
it
had
worn
yesterday
while
telling
the
tale
of
the
merchant
who
suffered
innocently
,
there
was
now
an
expression
of
quiet
solemnity
.
Karatáev
looked
at
Pierre
with
his
kindly
round
eyes
now
filled
with
tears
,
evidently
wishing
him
to
come
near
that
he
might
say
something
to
him
.
But
Pierre
was
not
sufficiently
sure
of
himself
.
He
made
as
if
he
did
not
notice
that
look
and
moved
hastily
away
.
When
the
prisoners
again
went
forward
Pierre
looked
round
.
Karatáev
was
still
sitting
at
the
side
of
the
road
under
the
birch
tree
and
two
Frenchmen
were
talking
over
his
head
.
Pierre
did
not
look
round
again
but
went
limping
up
the
hill
.
From
behind
,
where
Karatáev
had
been
sitting
,
came
the
sound
of
a
shot
.
Pierre
heard
it
plainly
,
but
at
that
moment
he
remembered
that
he
had
not
yet
finished
reckoning
up
how
many
stages
still
remained
to
Smolénsk
--
a
calculation
he
had
begun
before
the
marshal
went
by
.
And
he
again
started
reckoning
.
Two
French
soldiers
ran
past
Pierre
,
one
of
whom
carried
a
lowered
and
smoking
gun
.
They
both
looked
pale
,
and
in
the
expression
on
their
faces
--
one
of
them
glanced
timidly
at
Pierre
--
there
was
something
resembling
what
he
had
seen
on
the
face
of
the
young
soldier
at
the
execution
.
Pierre
looked
at
the
soldier
and
remembered
that
,
two
days
before
,
that
man
had
burned
his
shirt
while
drying
it
at
the
fire
and
how
they
had
laughed
at
him
.
Behind
him
,
where
Karatáev
had
been
sitting
,
the
dog
began
to
howl
.
"
What
a
stupid
beast
!
Why
is
it
howling
?
"
thought
Pierre
His
comrades
,
the
prisoner
soldiers
walking
beside
him
,
avoided
looking
back
at
the
place
where
the
shot
had
been
fired
and
the
dog
was
howling
,
just
as
Pierre
did
,
but
there
was
a
set
look
on
all
their
faces
.
