“Come, that’s right, Count!” cried the staff captain, turning round and clapping Rostóv on the shoulder with his big hand.
“I tell you,” shouted Denísov, “he’s a fine fellow.”
“That’s better, Count,” said the staff captain, beginning to address Rostóv by his title, as if in recognition of his confession. “Go and apologize, your excellency. Yes, go!”
“Gentlemen, I’ll do anything. No one shall hear a word from me,” said Rostóv in an imploring voice, “but I can’t apologize, by God I can’t, do what you will! How can I go and apologize like a little boy asking forgiveness?”
Denísov began to laugh.
“It’ll be worse for you. Bogdánich is vindictive and you’ll pay for your obstinacy,” said Kírsten.
“No, on my word it’s not obstinacy! I can’t describe the feeling. I can’t …”
“Well, it’s as you like,” said the staff captain. “And what has become of that scoundrel?” he asked Denísov.
“He has weported himself sick, he’s to be stwuck off the list tomowwow,” muttered Denísov.
“It is an illness, there’s no other way of explaining it,” said the staff captain.