“ Lanciers du 6-me ,” replied Dólokhov, neither hastening nor slackening his horse’s pace.
The black figure of a sentinel stood on the bridge.
“ Mot d’ordre. ”
Dólokhov reined in his horse and advanced at a walk.
“ Dites donc, le colonel Gérard est ici? ” he asked.
“ Mot d’ordre ,” repeated the sentinel, barring the way and not replying.
“ Quand un officier fait sa ronde, les sentinelles ne demandent pas le mot d’ordre … ” cried Dólokhov suddenly flaring up and riding straight at the sentinel. “ Je vous demande si le colonel est ici. ”
And without waiting for an answer from the sentinel, who had stepped aside, Dólokhov rode up the incline at a walk.
Noticing the black outline of a man crossing the road, Dólokhov stopped him and inquired where the commander and officers were. The man, a soldier with a sack over his shoulder, stopped, came close up to Dólokhov’s horse, touched it with his hand, and explained simply and in a friendly way that the commander and the officers were higher up the hill to the right in the courtyard of the farm, as he called the landowner’s house.
Having ridden up the road, on both sides of which French talk could be heard around the campfires, Dólokhov turned into the courtyard of the landowner’s house. Having ridden in, he dismounted and approached a big blazing campfire, around which sat several men talking noisily. Something was boiling in a small cauldron at the edge of the fire and a soldier in a peaked cap and blue overcoat, lit up by the fire, was kneeling beside it stirring its contents with a ramrod.