When Pierre returns home he is handed two of Rostopchin's broadsheets brought that day. The first declares it false that Rostopchin has forbidden people to leave; on the contrary he is glad ladies and tradesmen's wives are leaving. There will be less panic and less gossip, but I will stake my life on it that that scoundrel will not enter Moscow. Those words show Pierre clearly for the first time that the French will enter Moscow. The second states that headquarters are at Vyazma, that Count Wittgenstein has defeated the French, but that weapons are ready at the arsenal at a low price for inhabitants who wish to be armed. The tone is not as jocose as the Chigirin talks. Evidently the stormcloud he has desired with the whole strength of his soul, yet which arouses involuntary horror, is drawing near.
Shall I join the army, or wait? He lays out patience. If this patience comes out, it means... he has not decided what when the eldest princess asks whether she may come in. Then it will mean that I must go to the army. Only she, with the stony face and long waist, still lives in his house; the two younger have married. She comes reproachful: some decision must be come to. Everyone has left. The people are rioting. How is it we are staying? Arrange for me to be taken to Petersburg. Whatever I may be, I can't live under Bonaparte's rule. Pierre, uncomfortable as her benefactor, banters that things seem satisfactory and shows Rostopchin's stake of his life. Oh, that count of yours! A hypocrite who has roused the people. Didn't he write that anyone should be dragged to the lockup by his hair? Honour and glory to whoever captures him. Barbara Ivanovna was nearly killed for speaking French. Although the patience does come out, Pierre does not join the army. He remains in deserted Moscow, agitated, irresolute, and alarmed, yet joyfully expecting something terrible.
Next evening the princess sets off. The head steward says the money for the regiment cannot be found without selling an estate, and that raising a regiment will ruin him. Pierre can scarcely repress a smile. Well then, sell it. I can't draw back now. The worse his affairs, the better he is pleased: the catastrophe is approaching. Julie has gone, and Princess Mary. Of intimates only the Rostovs remain, but he does not go to them. To distract himself he drives to Vorontsovo to see the great balloon Leppich is constructing to destroy the foe, by the Emperor's desire, with a crew of reliable men and a warning not to descend into the enemy's hands. On the way home, passing Bolotnoe Place, he sees a crowd at Lobnoe Place. A French cook accused of being a spy is being flogged. The executioner releases a stout man with red whiskers, in blue stockings and a green jacket, who tries to appear firm, then cries as full-blooded grown men cry. Another pale Frenchman waits. A clerk jokes that Russian sauce sets a Frenchman's teeth on edge. Pierre chokes, turns away, and when the coachman drives toward the Governor's as ordered, shouts Fool! Home! I must get away this very day. He orders Evstafey, the head coachman who knows everything, to leave that night for Mozhaysk. Relay horses cannot be arranged that day, so departure waits till next day. On the twenty-fourth, after rain, he leaves after dinner. Changing horses that night at Perkhushkovo he learns there has been a great battle that evening: Shevardino. The earth trembled from the firing, but nobody can say who won. At dawn he approaches Mozhaysk. Every house has soldiers. The hostel is full of officers. Cossacks, wagons, caissons, and cannon are everywhere. The farther he leaves Moscow and plunges into that sea of troops, the more a new joyful feeling overcomes him, akin to the Sloboda Palace: the necessity of undertaking something and sacrificing something. Comfort, wealth, even life itself, is rubbish it is pleasant to throw away, compared with something. He cannot say with what. The fact of sacrificing in itself affords a joyous sensation.
