“We’ll make you dance as we did under Suvórov...,” * said Dólokhov.
* “On vous fera danser.”
“Qu’ est-ce qu’il chante?” * asked a Frenchman.
* “What’s he singing about?”
“It’s ancient history,” said another, guessing that it referred to a former war. “The Emperor will teach your Suvara as he has taught the others...”
“Bonaparte...” began Dólokhov, but the Frenchman interrupted him.
“Not Bonaparte. He is the Emperor! Sacré nom...!” cried he angrily.
“The devil skin your Emperor.”
And Dólokhov swore at him in coarse soldier’s Russian and shouldering his musket walked away.
“Let us go, Iván Lukích,” he said to the captain.