he had done the day before. That something shameful was his yesterday’s conversation with Captain Ramballe.
It was eleven by the clock, but it seemed peculiarly dark out of doors. Pierre rose, rubbed his eyes, and seeing the pistol with an engraved stock which Gerásim had replaced on the writing table, he remembered where he was and what lay before him that very day.
“Am I not too late?” he thought. “No, probably he won’t make his entry into Moscow before noon.”
Pierre did not allow himself to reflect on what lay before him, but hastened to act.
After arranging his clothes, he took the pistol and was about to go out. But it then occurred to him for the first time that he certainly could not carry the weapon in his hand through the streets. It was difficult to hide such a big