“May I make bold to trouble your honor?” said he respectfully, but with a shade of contempt for the youthfulness of this officer and with a hand thrust into his bosom. “My mistress, daughter of General in Chief Prince Nikoláy Andréevich Bolkónski who died on the fifteenth of this month, finding herself in difficulties owing to the boorishness of these people”⁠—he pointed to the peasants⁠—“asks you to come up to the house.⁠ ⁠… Won’t you, please, ride on a little farther,” said Alpátych with a melancholy smile, “as it is not convenient in the presence of⁠ ⁠… ?” He pointed to the two peasants who kept as close to him as horseflies to a horse.

“Ah!⁠ ⁠… Alpátych⁠ ⁠… Ah, Yákov Alpátych⁠ ⁠… Grand! Forgive us for Christ’s sake, eh?” said the peasants, smiling joyfully at him.

Rostóv looked at the tipsy peasants and smiled.

“Or perhaps they amuse your honor?” remarked Alpátych with a staid air, as he pointed at the old men with his free hand.