“I concluded that if I reported to your Serene Highness you might send me away or say that you knew what I was reporting, but then I shouldn’t lose anything …” Dólokhov was saying.
“Yes, yes.”
“But if I were right, I should be rendering a service to my Fatherland for which I am ready to die.”
“Yes, yes.”
“And should your Serene Highness require a man who will not spare his skin, please think of me. … Perhaps I may prove useful to your Serene Highness.”
“Yes … Yes …” Kutúzov repeated, his laughing eye narrowing more and more as he looked at Pierre.
Just then Borís, with his courtierlike adroitness, stepped up to Pierre’s side near Kutúzov and in a most natural manner, without raising his voice, said to Pierre, as though continuing an interrupted conversation:
“The militia have put on clean white shirts to be ready to die. What heroism, Count!”
Borís evidently said this to Pierre in order to be overheard by his Serene Highness. He knew Kutúzov’s attention would be caught by those words, and so it was.
“What are you saying about the militia?” he asked Borís.
“Preparing for tomorrow, your Serene Highness—for death—they have put on clean shirts.”
“Ah … a wonderful, a matchless people!” said Kutúzov; and he closed his eyes and swayed his head. “A matchless people!” he repeated with a sigh.