Only when approaching Bagratión did Rostóv let his horse gallop again, and with his hand at the salute rode up to the general.
Dolgorúkov was still insisting that the French had retreated and had only lit fires to deceive us.
“What does that prove?” he was saying as Rostóv rode up. “They might retreat and leave the pickets.”
“It’s plain that they have not all gone yet, Prince,” said Bagratión. “Wait till tomorrow morning, we’ll find out everything tomorrow.”
“The picket is still on the hill, your excellency, just where it was in the evening,” reported Rostóv, stooping forward with his hand at the salute and unable to repress the smile of delight induced by his ride and especially by the sound of the bullets.
“Very good, very good,” said Bagratión. “Thank you, officer.”
“Your excellency,” said Rostóv, “may I ask a favor?”
“What is it?”
“Tomorrow our squadron is to be in reserve. May I ask to be attached to the first squadron?”
“What’s your name?”