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War And Peace 348


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him involuntarily. "Now listen to me. Im telling you this for the last time. Why should I joke about it? Did I hinder you? Who arranged everything for you? Who found the priest and got the passport? Who raised the money? I did it all." "Well, thank you for it. Do you think I am not grateful?" And Anatole sighed and embraced Dolokhov. "I helped you, but all the same I must tell you the truth; it is a dangerous business, and if you think about it--a stupid business. Well, youll carry her off--all right! Will they let it stop at that? It will come out that youre already married. Why, theyll have you in the criminal court...." "Oh, nonsense, nonsense!" Anatole ejaculated and again made a grimace. "Didnt I explain to you? What?" And Anatole, with the partiality dull-witted people have for any conclusion they have reached by their own reasoning, repeated the argument he had already put to Dolokhov a hundred times. "Didnt I explain to you that I have come to this conclusion: if this marriage is invalid," he went on, crooking one finger, "then I have nothing to answer for; but if it is valid, no matter! Abroad no one will know anything about it. Isnt that so? And dont talk to me, dont, dont." "Seriously, youd better drop it! Youll only get yourself into a mess!" "Go to the devil!" cried Anatole and, clutching his hair, left the room, but returned at once and dropped into an armchair in front of Dolokhov with his feet turned under him. "Its the very devil! What? Feel how it beats!" He took Dolokhovs hand and put it on his heart. "What a foot, my dear fellow! What a glance! A goddess!" he added in French. "What?" Dolokhov with a cold smile and a gleam in his handsome insolent eyes looked at him--evidently wishing to get some more amusement out of him. "Well and when the moneys gone, what then?" "What then? Eh?" repeated Anatole, sincerely perplexed by a thought of the future. "What then?... Then, I dont know.... But why talk nonsense!" He glanced at his watch. "Its time!" Anatole went into the back room. "Now then! Nearly ready? Youre dawdling!" he shouted to the servants. Dolokhov put away the money, called a footman whom he ordered to bring something for them to eat and drink before the journey, and went into the room where Khvostikov and Makarin were sitting. Anatole lay on the sofa in the study leaning on his elbow and smiling pensively, while his handsome lips muttered tenderly to himself. "Come and eat something. Have a drink!" Dolokhov shouted to him from the other room. "I dont want to," answered Anatole continuing to smile. "Come! Balaga is here." Anatole rose and went into the dining room. Balaga was a famous troyka driver who had known Dolokhov and Anatole some six years and had given them good service with his troykas. More than once when Anatoles regiment was stationed at Tver he had taken him from Tver in the evening, brought him to Moscow by daybreak, and driven him back again the next night. More than once he had enabled Dolokhov to escape when pursued. More than once he had driven them through the town with gypsies and "ladykins" as he called the cocottes. More than once in their service he had run over pedestrians and upset vehicles in the streets of Moscow and had always been protected from the consequences by "my gentlemen" as he called them. He had ruined more than one horse in their service. More than once they had beaten him, and more than once they had made him drunk on champagne and Madeira, which he loved; and he knew more than one thing about each of them which would long ago have sent an ordinary man to Siberia. They often called Balaga into their orgies and made him drink and dance at the gypsies, and more than one thousand rubles of their money had passed through his hands. In their service he risked his skin and his life twenty times a year, and in their service had lost more horses than the money he had from them would buy. But he liked them; liked that mad driving at twelve miles an hour, liked upsetting a driver or running down a pedestrian, and flying at full gallop through the Moscow streets. He liked to hear those wild, tipsy shouts behind him: "Get on! Get on!" when it was impossible to go any faster. He liked giving a painful lash on the neck to some peasant

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