“Call him in, call him here.”

Kutúzov sat up with one leg hanging down from the bed and his big paunch resting against the other which was doubled under him. He screwed up his seeing eye to scrutinize the messenger more carefully, as if wishing to read in his face what preoccupied his own mind.

“Tell me, tell me, friend,” said he to Bolkhovítinov in his low, aged voice, as he pulled together the shirt which gaped open on his chest, “come nearer⁠—nearer. What news have you brought me? Eh? That Napoleon has left Moscow? Are you sure? Eh?”

Bolkhovítinov gave a detailed account from the beginning of all he had been told to report.

“Speak quicker, quicker! Don’t torture me!” Kutúzov interrupted him.