“Lieutenant, he has a dagger,” were the first words Pierre understood.
“Ah, a weapon?” said the officer and turned to the barefooted soldier who had been arrested with Pierre. “All right, you can tell all about it at the court-martial.” Then he turned to Pierre. “Do you speak French?”
Pierre looked around him with bloodshot eyes and did not reply. His face probably looked very terrible, for the officer said something in a whisper and four more Uhlans left the ranks and placed themselves on both sides of Pierre.
“Do you speak French?” the officer asked again, keeping at a distance from Pierre. “Call the interpreter.”
A little man in Russian civilian clothes rode out from the ranks, and by his clothes and manner of speaking Pierre at once knew him to be a French salesman from one of the Moscow shops.
“He does not look like a common man,” said the interpreter, after a searching look at Pierre.
“Ah, he looks very much like an incendiary,” remarked the officer. “And ask him who he is,” he added.
“Who are you?” asked the interpreter in poor Russian. “You must answer the chief.”