Prince Andrey， coming out to the foremost line， rode along in front of it. Our line and the enemy’s were far from one another at the left and also at the right flank； but in the centre， at the spot where in the morning the messengers had met， the lines came so close that the soldiers of the two armies could see each other’s faces and talk together. Besides these soldiers， whose place was in that part of the line， many others had gathered there from both sides， and they were laughing， as they scrutinised the strange and novel dress and aspect of their foes.
Since early morning， though it was forbidden to go up to the line， the commanding officers could not keep the inquisitive soldiers back. The soldiers， whose post was in that part of the line， like showmen exhibiting some curiosity， no longer looked at the French， but made observations on the men who came up to look， and waited with a bored face to be relieved. Prince Andrey stopped to look carefully at the French.
“Look’ee， look’ee，” one soldier was saying to a comrade， pointing to a Russian musketeer， who had gone up to the lines with an officer and was talking warmly and rapidly with a French grenadier. “I say， doesn’t he jabber away fine！ I bet the Frenchy can’t keep pace with him. Now， then， Sidorov？”
“Wait a bit； listen. Aye， it’s fine！” replied Sidorov， reputed a regular scholar at talking French.
The soldier， at whom they had pointed laughing， was Dolohov. Prince Andrey recognised him and listened to what he was saying. Dolohov， together with his captain， had come from the left flank， where his regiment was posted.
“Come， again， again！” the captain urged， craning forward and trying not to lose a syllable of the conversation， though it was unintelligible to him. “Please， go on. What’s he saying？”
Dolohov did not answer the captain； he had been drawn into a hot dispute with the French grenadier. They were talking， as was to be expected， of the campaign. The Frenchman， mixing up the Austrians and the Russians， was maintaining that the Russians had been defeated and had been fleeing all the way from Ulm. Dolohov declared that the Russians had never been defeated， but had beaten the French.
“We have orders to drive you away from here， and we shall too，” said Dolohov.
“You had better take care you are not all captured with all your Cossacks，” said the French grenadier.
Spectators and listeners on the French side laughed.
“We shall make you dance， as you danced in Suvorov’s day” （on vous fera danser）， said Dolohov.
“What is he prating about？” said a Frenchman.
“Ancient history，” said another， guessing that the allusion was to former wars. “The Emperor will show your Suvorov， like the others.…”
“Bonaparte …” Dolohov was beginning， but the Frenchman interrupted him.
“Not Bonaparte. He is the Emperor！ Sacré nom …” he said angrily.
“Damnation to him， your Emperor！”
And Dolohov swore a coarse soldier’s oath in Russian， and， shouldering his gun， walked away.
“Come along， Ivan Lukitch，” he said to his captain.
“So that’s how they talk French，” said the soldiers in the line. “Now then， you， Sidorov.” Sidorov winked， and， turning to the French， he fell to gabbling disconnected syllables very rapidly.
“Kari-ma-la-ta-fa-sa-fi-mu-ter-kess-ka，” he jabbered， trying to give the most expressive intonation to his voice.
“Ho， ho， ho！ ha ha！ ha ha！ Oh！ oo！” the soldiers burst into a roar of such hearty， good-humoured laughter， in which the French line too could not keep from joining， that after it it seemed as though they must unload their guns， blow up their ammunition， and all hurry away back to their homes. But the guns remained loaded， the port-holes in the houses and earthworks looked out as menacingly as ever， and the cannons， taken off their platforms， confronted one another as before.
