Shortly after nine, Weyrother drives his plans to Kutúzov's modest castle near Ostralitz. All column commanders have been summoned; only Bagratión declines. The Austrian, twice already at the enemy pickets and twice with the two Emperors, has dictated the dispositions in German and now arrives mud-spattered, exhausted, and too busy even to be polite. He interrupts Kutúzov, talks without looking at him, and does not answer questions. The commander in chief, uniform unbuttoned, fat neck bulging, sits almost asleep in a low chair, reluctantly playing chairman. When Bagratión's orderly brings word that the prince will not come, Prince Andrew stays with Kutúzov's permission. Weyrother spreads an enormous map of the environs of Brünn. Kutúzov opens his one eye: it is already late. During the reading that follows, the sounds from his nose prove he is not pretending. He is asleep.
Weyrother reads aloud, in a loud monotonous voice, "Dispositions for an attack on the enemy position behind Kobelnitz and Sokolnitz, November 30, 1805": a complicated scheme of columns marching to fall on the French right and pursue across the plain between Schlappanitz and the Thuerassa forest. Buxhöwden leans on the wall staring at a candle. Milorádovich sits in a military pose, eyes wide, then looks round significantly without anyone knowing what the look means. Langeron twirls a gold snuffbox, interrupts, is frowned down, and mutters "A geography lesson!" Przebyszéwski holds a hand to his ear; Dokhtúrov stoops over the map and asks for village names to be repeated. When the hour is over, Langeron objects that the enemy's position is assumed known while Bonaparte is in movement and might attack instead. Weyrother meets every point with a prepared contemptuous smile: if Bonaparte could attack, he would have done so today; he has forty thousand at most; quenched fires mean retreat or a change of ground, and even a new position in the Thuerassa leaves the arrangements the same. Milorádovich only says they will see tomorrow on the battlefield.
Prince Andrew has waited to speak. Kutúzov wakes, coughs, and tells the generals that the dispositions for today (it is past midnight) cannot now be altered. They have heard them and will do their duty. Before a battle there is nothing more important than a good sleep. The council leaves Andrew uneasy: he could not give his opinion, and he does not know who is right. Is it possible that court and personal considerations must risk tens of thousands of lives, and his own? Walking in moonlight through fog before the hut he shares with Nesvítski, he admits he may be killed, remembers parting from his father and wife, then dreams of his Toulon: he will express his views, take a regiment, win alone. Another voice asks about death and suffering; he does not answer it. He loves nothing but fame and men's esteem. Father, sister, wife: he would give them all for a moment of glory from men he will never know. In the courtyard a coachman teases Kutúzov's old cook: "Tit, I say, Tit! Go, Tit, thresh a bit!" Laughter rises through the mist. Still, he values only the mystic power and glory floating above him in that fog.
