“Leave off jesting，” said Prince Andrey， with mournful seriousness. The news grieved Prince Andrey， and yet it gave him pleasure. As soon as he heard that the Russian army was in such a hopeless position， the idea struck him that he was the very man destined to extricate the Russian army from that position， and that it had come—the Toulon—that would lift him for ever from out of the ranks of unknown officers， and open the first path to glory for him！ As he listened to Bilibin， he was already considering how， on reaching the army， he would， at a council of war， give the opinion that alone could save the army， and how he would be entrusted alone to execute the plan.
“Leave off joking，” he said.
“I’m not joking，” Bilibin went on. “Nothing could be more truthful or more melancholy. These three gentlemen advance to the bridge alone and wave white handkerchiefs； they declare that it’s a truce， and that they， the marshals， are come for a parley with Prince Auersperg. The officer on duty lets them into the tête du pont. They tell him a thousand Gascon absurdities； say that the war is over， that Emperor Francis has arranged a meeting with Bonaparte， that they desire to see Prince Auersperg， and so on. The officer sends for Auersperg. These Gascon gentlemen embrace the officers， make jokes， and sit about on the cannons， while a French battalion meantime advances unnoticed on the bridge， flings the sacks of inflammable material into the river， and marches up to the tête du pont. Finally the lieutenant-general himself appears， our dear Prince Auersperg von Mautern. ‘My dear enemy！ Flower of Austrian chivalry！ hero of the Turkish war！ Hostility is at end， we can take each other’s hands … the Emperor Napoleon burns with impatience to make the acquaintance of Prince Auersperg.’ In a word， these gentlemen—not Gascons for nothing—so bewilder Auersperg with fair words—he is so flattered at this speedy intimacy with French marshals， so dazzled by the spectacle of their cloaks， and of the ostrich feathers of Murat—that their fire gets into his eyes and makes him forget that he ought to be firing on the enemy” （in spite of the interest of his story， Bilibin did not omit to pause after this mot， to give time for its appreciation）. “A French battalion runs into the tête du pont， spikes the cannons， and the bridge is taken. No， but really the best part of the whole episode，” he went on， his excitement subsiding under the interest of his own story， “is that the sergeant in charge of the cannon which was to give the signal for firing the mines and blowing up the bridge， this sergeant seeing the French troops running on to the bridge wanted to fire， but Lannes pulled his arm away. The sergeant， who seems to have been sharper than his general， goes up to Auersperg and says： ‘Prince， they’re deceiving you， here are the French！’ Murat sees the game is up if he lets the sergeant have his say. With an affectation of surprise （a true Gascon！） he addresses Auersperg： ‘Is this the Austrian discipline so highly extolled all over the world，’ says he， ‘do you let a man of low rank speak to you like this？’ It was a stroke of genius. The Prince of Auersperg is touched in his honour and has the sergeant put under arrest. No， but confess that all this story of the bridge of Tabor is charming. It is neither stupidity， nor cowardice …”
“It is treason， perhaps，” said Prince Andrey， vividly picturing to himself grey overcoats， wounds， the smoke and sound of firing， and the glory awaiting him.
“Not that either. This puts the court into a pretty pickle，” pursued Bilibin. “It is not treason， nor cowardice， nor stupidity； it is just as it was at Ulm …” He seemed to ponder， seeking the phrase， “it is … c’est du Mack. Nous sommes mackés，” he said， feeling he was uttering un mot， and a fresh one， one that would be repeated. His creased-up brows let the puckers smooth out quickly in sign of satisfaction， and with a faint smile he fell to scrutinizing his finger-nails.
“Where are you off to？” he said， suddenly turning to Prince Andrey， who had got up and was going to his room.
“I must start.”
“Where to？”
“To the army.”
“But you meant to stay another two days？”
“But now I am going at once”； and Prince Andrey， after a few words arranging about his journey， went to his room.
“Do you know， my dear boy，” said Bilibin， coming into his room， “I have been thinking about you. What are you going for？” And in support of the irrefutability of his arguments on the subject， all the creases ran off his face.
Prince Andrey looked inquiringly at him and made no reply.
“Why are you going？ I know you consider that it’s your duty to gallop off to the army now that the army is in danger. I understand that， my boy， it’s heroism.”
“Nothing of the kind，” said Prince Andrey.
“But you are un philosophe， be one fully， look at things from the other side， and you will see that it is your duty， on the contrary， to take care of yourself. Leave that to others who are no good for anything else … You have received no orders to go back， and you are not dismissed from here， so that you can remain and go with us， where our ill-luck takes us. They say they are going to Olm？tz. And Olm？tz is a very charming town. And we can travel there comfortably together in my carriage.”
“That’s enough joking， Bilibin，” said Bolkonsky.
“I am speaking to you sincerely as a friend. Consider where are you going and with what object now， when you can stay here. You have two alternatives before you” （he puckered up the skin of his left temple） “either you won’t reach the army before peace will be concluded， or you will share the defeat and disgrace with Kutuzov’s whole army.” And Bilibin let his brow go smooth again， feeling that his dilemma was beyond attack.
“That I can’t enter into，” said Prince Andrey coldly， but he thought： “I am going to save the army.”
“My dear fellow， you are a hero，” said Bilibin
