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Chapter 15

           

           TheFrenchonlookersandlistenerslaughed.

           “We’llmakeyoudanceaswedidunderSuvórov...,”*saidDólokhov.

           *“Onvousferadanser.”

           “Qu’est-cequ’ilchante?”*askedaFrenchman.

           *“What’shesingingabout?”

           “It’sancienthistory,”saidanother,guessingthatitreferredtoaformerwar.“TheEmperorwillteachyourSuvaraashehastaughttheothers...”

           “Bonaparte...”beganDólokhov,buttheFrenchmaninterruptedhim.

           “NotBonaparte.HeistheEmperor!Sacrénom...!”criedheangrily.

           “ThedevilskinyourEmperor.”

           AndDólokhovsworeathimincoarsesoldier’sRussianandshoulderinghismusketwalkedaway.

           “Letusgo,IvánLukích,”hesaidtothecaptain.

           “Ah,that’sthewaytotalkFrench,”saidthepicketsoldiers.“Now,Sídorov,youhaveatry!”

           Sídorov,turningtotheFrench,winked,andbegantojabbermeaninglesssoundsveryfast:“Kari,mala,tafa,safi,muter,Kaská,”hesaid,tryingtogiveanexpressiveintonationtohisvoice.

           “Ho!ho!ho!Ha!ha!ha!ha!Ouh!ouh!”camepealsofsuchhealthyandgood-humoredlaughterfromthesoldiersthatitinfectedtheFrenchinvoluntarily,somuchsothattheonlythinglefttodoseemedtobetounloadthemuskets,explodetheammunition,andallreturnhomeasquicklyaspossible.

           Butthegunsremainedloaded,theloopholesinblockhousesandentrenchmentslookedoutjustasmenacingly,andtheunlimberedcannonconfrontedoneanotherasbefore.

           

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