On the thirtieth of August Pierre reaches Moscow. Close to the gates he is met by Count Rostopchin's adjutant. They have been looking for him everywhere. The count wants to see him particularly, at once, on a very important matter. Without going home, Pierre takes a cab and drives to see the Moscow commander in chief. Rostopchin has only that morning returned to town from his summer villa at Sokolniki. The anteroom and reception room of his house are full of officials who have been summoned or have come for orders. Vasilchikov and Platov have already seen the count and explained that it is impossible to defend Moscow and that it will have to be surrendered. Though this news is being concealed from the inhabitants, the officials, the heads of the various government departments, know that Moscow will soon be in the enemy's hands, just as Rostopchin himself knows it, and to escape personal responsibility they have all come to ask how they are to deal with their various departments. As Pierre enters the reception room a courier from the army comes out of Rostopchin's private room. In answer to questions with which he is greeted, the courier makes a despairing gesture with his hand and passes through.
While waiting, Pierre with weary eyes watches the various officials, old and young, military and civilian. They all seem dissatisfied and uneasy. He goes up to a group, one of whom he knows. If they are sent out and brought back again later it will do no harm, but as things are now one cannot answer for anything. Another points to a printed sheet. That is another matter. That is necessary for the people. Pierre takes the fresh broadsheet and reads. His Serene Highness has passed through Mozhaysk in order to join up with the troops moving toward him and has taken up a strong position where the enemy will not soon attack him. Forty-eight guns with ammunition have been sent him. His Serene Highness says he will defend Moscow to the last drop of blood and is even ready to fight in the streets. Do not be upset, brothers, that the law courts are closed. When the time comes the count will want both town and peasant lads and will raise the cry a day or two beforehand. An ax will be useful, a hunting spear not bad, but a three-pronged fork will be best of all: a Frenchman is no heavier than a sheaf of rye. Tomorrow after dinner he will take the Iberian icon of the Mother of God to the wounded in the Catherine Hospital where they will have some water blessed. He too is well now: one of his eyes was sore but now he is on the lookout with both. Pierre says military men have told him it is impossible to fight in the town. Well, of course, that is what we were saying, replies the first speaker. Pierre asks what the sore eye means. The count had a sty, the adjutant says, smiling, and was very much upset when people came to ask what was the matter with him. By the by, they have heard that Pierre has family troubles, that the countess his wife is preparing to go abroad. Pierre has heard nothing and looks about him absent-mindedly.
He asks who a short old man is, in a clean blue peasant overcoat, with a big snow-white beard and eyebrows and a ruddy face. That is a tradesman, the restaurant keeper Vereshchagin, perhaps Pierre has heard of that affair with the proclamation. Oh, so that is Vereshchagin, Pierre says, looking at the firm, calm face and seeking any indication of his being a traitor. That is not he himself, that is the father of the fellow who wrote the proclamation. The young man is in prison and it will go hard with him. An old gentleman wearing a star and a German official wearing a cross approach. The adjutant tells the complicated story cheerfully, with a smile of pride. The proclamation appeared about two months ago. The count ordered an investigation. It had passed through exactly sixty-three hands. They went from one man to the next until they reached Vereshchagin, a half-educated tradesman, a pet of a trader. They asked who gave it him. The point is they knew he could only have had it from the Postmaster. But evidently they had come to some understanding. He replied: from no one, I made it up myself. They threatened and questioned him, but he stuck to that. The count sent for him. From whom did you get the proclamation? I wrote it myself. The count flared up dreadfully at the fellow's audacity, lying, and obstinacy. Pierre thinks the count wanted him to say it was from Klyucharev. Not at all, the adjutant rejoins in dismay. Klyucharev had his own sins to answer for, and that is why he has been banished. The count took up the Hamburg Gazette lying on the table. Here it is. You did not write it yourself but translated it, and translated it abominably, because you do not even know French, you fool. No, said the young man, I have not read any papers, I made it up myself. If that is so, you are a traitor and I will have you tried, and you will be hanged. He stuck to it. He was sent for trial and condemned to hard labour, the adjutant believes. Now the father has come to intercede for him. But he is a good-for-nothing lad, a dandy and lady-killer, who attended some lectures somewhere and imagines that the devil is no match for him. His father keeps a cookshop by the Stone Bridge. There was a large icon of God Almighty painted with a sceptre in one hand and an orb in the other. The son took that icon home for a few days, and what did he do? He found some scoundrel of a painter.
