“Well， another bottle of this Moscow claret， eh？ Morel， warm us another bottle！” the captain shouted gaily.
Morel brought candles and a bottle of wine. The captain looked at Pierre in the candle-light， and was obviously struck by the troubled face of his companion. With genuine regret and sympathy in his face， Ramballe approached Pierre， and bent over him.
“Eh， we are sad！” he said， touching Pierre on the hand. “Can I have hurt you？ No， really， have you anything against me？” he questioned. “Perhaps it is owing to the situation of affairs？”
Pierre made no reply， but looked cordially into the Frenchman’s eyes. This expression of sympathy was pleasant to him.
“My word of honour， to say nothing of what I owe you， I have a liking for you. Can I do anything for you？ Dispose of me. It is for life and death. With my hand and my heart， I say so，” he said， slapping himself on the chest.
“Thank you，” said Pierre. The captain gazed at Pierre as he had gazed at him when he learnt the German for “refuge，” and his face suddenly brightened.
“Ah， in that case， I drink to our friendship，” he cried gaily， pouring out two glasses of wine.
Pierre took the glass and emptied it. Ramballe emptied his， pressed Pierre’s hand once more， and leaned his elbow on the table in a pose of pensive melancholy.
“Yes， my dear friend， such are the freaks of fortune，” he began. “Who would have said I should be a soldier and captain of dragoons in the service of Bonaparte， as we used to call him. And yet here I am at Moscow with him. I must tell you， my dear fellow，” he continued in the mournful and measured voice of a man who intends to tell a long story， “our name is one of the most ancient in France.”
And with the easy and na？ve unreserve of a Frenchman， the captain told Pierre the history of his forefathers， his childhood， boyhood， and manhood， and all his relations， his fortunes， and domestic affairs. “Ma pauvre mère，” took， of course， a prominent part in this recital.
“But all that is only the setting of life； the real thing is love. Love！ Eh， M. Pierre？” he said， warming up. “Another glass.”
Pierre again emptied his glass， and filled himself a third.
“O women！ women！” and the captain， gazing with moist eyes at Pierre， began talking of love and his adventures with the fair ***. They were very numerous， as might readily be believed， judging from the officer’s conceited， handsome face and the eager enthusiasm with which he talked of women. Although all Ramballe’s accounts of his love affairs were characterised by that peculiar nastiness in which the French find the unique charm and poetry of love， the captain told his stories with such genuine conviction that he was the only man who had tasted and known all the sweets of love， and he described the women he had known in such an alluring fashion that Pierre listened to him with curiosity.
It was evident that l’amour the Frenchman was so fond of was neither that low and ****** kind of love Pierre had at one time felt for his wife， nor the romantic love， exaggerated by himself， that he felt for Natasha. For both those kinds of love Ramballe had an equal contempt—one was l’amour des charretiers， the other l’amour des nigauds. L’amour for which the Frenchman had a weakness consisted principally in an unnatural relation to the woman， and in combinations of monstrous circumstances which lent the chief charm to the feeling.
Thus the captain related the touching history of his love for a fascinating marquise of five-and-thirty， and at the same time for a charming， innocent child of seventeen， the daughter of the fascinating marquise. The conflict of generosity between mother and daughter， ending in the mother sacrificing herself and offering her daughter in marriage to her lover， even now， though it was a memory in the remote past， moved the captain deeply. Then he related an episode in which the husband played the part of the lover， and he—the lover—the part of the husband， and several comic episodes among his reminiscences of Germany， where Unterkunft means asile， where the husbands eat cabbage soup， and where the young girls are too flaxen-haired.
