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"Not Bonaparte. He is the Emperor! Sacre nom...!" cried he

angrily.

"The devil skin your Emperor."

And Dolokhov swore at him in coarse soldier's Russian and

shouldering his musket walked away.

"Let us go, Ivan Lukich," he said to the captain.

"Ah, that's the way to talk French," said the picket soldiers.

"Now, Sidorov, you have a try!"

Sidorov, turning to the French, winked, and began to jabber

meaningless sounds very fast: "Kari, mala, tafa, safi, muter,

Kaska," he said, trying to give an expressive intonation to his

voice.

"Ho! ho! ho! Ha! ha! ha! ha! Ouh! ouh!" came peals of such

healthy and good-humored laughter from the soldiers that it

infected the French involuntarily, so much so that the only thing

left to do seemed to be to unload the muskets, explode the

ammunition, and all return home as quickly as possible.

But the guns remained loaded, the loopholes in blockhouses and

entrenchments looked out just as menacingly, and the unlimbered

cannon confronted one another as before.