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better than before.
He had to stay in Moscow,
concealing his identity,
and to kill Napoleon,
so as either to perish
or to put an end
to the misery of all Europe.
She's burned to death!
Oh, help me, good people,
good Christians!
I left my poor daughter there!
She's burned to death!
The fire started up next door,
then it spread to our home.
We ran out as we were,
taking only icons and my bed.
And we saved the children,
but we couldn't find Katenka!
Where did you last see her?
My good sir, my benefactor!
Set my heart at rest, please!
Anniska, you horrid girl!
Show him the way!
Show me the way. I'll see
what I can do...
She has burned to death...
This way, sir.
We'll have to go by the alley.
Which is your house?
Right here! That's where our
place was.
She's burned to death! My little
treasure!
My darling little mistress!
Haven't you seen a child
in that house?
I did hear something crying
in the garden.
Perhaps it's the fellow's brat.
Ah, a little girl.
So much the better.
Must be humane.
We're all mortal, you know.
Have you lost someone, my good man?
You're of the gentry, aren't you?
Whose child is it?
A woman was sitting here with
her children. Where has she gone?
It must be the Anferovs' child.
The Anferovs left early today.
It's Maria Nikolayevna's.
He says a woman,
and Maria Nikolayevna's a lady.
It's Maria Nikolayevna's all right.
They left for the garden.
Here, take the child. Give her
to her parents.
Let that woman alone!
Arrest him!
Lieutenant, he has a dagger!
He looks very like an arsonist.
Sir! What about the little girl?
Who will I give her to,
if I can't find her mother?
What does she want?
She's carrying my daughter, whom
I have just saved from the flames!
Goodbye!
Most high and gracious
Emperor and Czar...
Calm and luxurious,
troubled only about phantoms
and reflections of real life,
the life in St. Petersburg
went right on as always.
Great efforts
were required
to realize the difficult situation
of the Russian people
and the danger
besetting them.
This time, at a soiree at Scherer's,
they were reading the letter
sent by the Metropolitan to the Czar
along with an icon of Saint Sergey.
Let the insolent and arrogant
Goliath
from the borders of France bring
to Russia the horrors of death.
Humble faith,
the sling of the Russian David...
The other big news was
the sudden death of Helen Bezukhov.
My failing strength
hinders me from the joy
of your most gracious presence.
Who are you?
I know this man.
You cannot know me, General.
I have never met you.
It is a Russian spy.
No, Your Highness!
You could not know me.
I have never left Moscow.
- Your name?
- Bezukhov.
Who can prove that you are not
lying?
How will you prove to me
the truth of what you say?
M. Ramball, Captain of the 13th
Light Brigade, knows me.
- You are not what you say.
- Your Highness!
Take him away.
What shall we do with him,
Your Highness?
In the name of the Emperor and
King,
on this day, September 8
of the year 1812...
the military judicial commission
sentences the accused
to death by shooting.
Who is executing me,
depriving me of life?
Me, with all my memories,
my aspirations,
my hopes, my thoughts?
Who is doing this?
They are all suffering as I am.
So who is doing this?
No one. The established order.
The interplay of circumstances.
Not the fat one with the glasses.
No! I don't want to!
And have you seen
a lot of trouble, sir?
You mustn't worry, though.
Suffer an hour, live for an age.
That's the way it goes, my dear.
- Who are you? A soldier?
- Yes, from the Apsheron regiment.
I was dying of fever.
Twenty of us were sick.
No one expected this.
Here she is, the hussy.
She remembers me!
Here, you taste this, sir.
At dinner we had soup.
But the potatoes are first rate!
No, no, not that way.
Here, let me show you.
You taste them like that.
First-rate potatoes!
Why did they kill
those poor men?
That last

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