BOOK THIRTEEN: 1812
11. CHAPTER XI
(continued)
For some days the weather had been calm and clear with slight frosts
in the mornings- what is called an "old wives' summer."
In the sunshine the air was warm, and that warmth was particularly
pleasant with the invigorating freshness of the morning frost still in
the air.
On everything- far and near- lay the magic crystal glitter seen only
at that time autumn. The Sparrow Hills were visible in the distance,
with the village, the church, and the large white house. The bare
trees, the sand, the bricks and roofs of the houses, the green
church spire, and the corners of the white house in the distance,
all stood out in the transparent air in most delicate outline and with
unnatural clearness. Near by could be seen the familiar ruins of a
half-burned mansion occupied by the French, with lilac bushes still
showing dark green beside the fence. And even that ruined and befouled
house- which in dull weather was repulsively ugly- seemed quietly
beautiful now, in the clear, motionless brilliance.
A French corporal, with coat unbuttoned in a homely way, a
skullcap on his head, and a short pipe in his mouth, came from
behind a corner of the shed and approached Pierre with a friendly
wink.
"What sunshine, Monsieur Kiril!" (Their name for Pierre.) "Eh?
Just like spring!"
And the corporal leaned against the door and offered Pierre his
pipe, though whenever he offered it Pierre always declined it.
"To be on the march in such weather..." he began.
Pierre inquired what was being said about leaving, and the
corporal told him that nearly all the troops were starting and there
ought to be an order about the prisoners that day. Sokolov, one of the
soldiers in the shed with Pierre, was dying, and Pierre told the
corporal that something should be done about him. The corporal replied
that Pierre need not worry about that as they had an ambulance and a
permanent hospital and arrangements would be made for the sick, and
that in general everything that could happen had been foreseen by
the authorities.
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