It was the second hour of the night when Pierre left his friend. The night was the June night of St. Petersburg, a grim night. Pierre sat in a haulm carriage with the intention of going home. But the closer he came, the more he felt unable to fall asleep on that night, which was more like an evening or morning. It was far from being seen through the empty streets. Dear Pierre remembered that Anatol Kuragina was supposed to have an ordinary gambling society tonight, after which a drink was usually going on, ending with one of Pierre's favorite pastimes.
"It would be good to go to Kuragin," he thought. But immediately he remembered the honest word given to Prince Andrei Kuragina.
But immediately, as it happens with people called characterless, he so passionately wanted to try again this familiar to him a dissolute life that he decided to go. And immediately it occurred to him that this word did not mean anything, because even before Prince Andrew, he had also given Prince Anatol his word to be with him; finally, he thought that all these honest words were such conditional things, which had no definite meaning, especially if he realized that maybe tomorrow he would either die or something so extraordinary would happen to him that there would be no more honest or dishonest. This kind of reasoning, destroying all his decisions and assumptions, often came to Pierre. He went to Kuragin.
Driving up to the porch of the big house near the horseguard barracks where Anatole lived, he climbed the illuminated porch, the stairs, and entered the opened door. There was no one in the front; there were empty bottles, cloaks, galoshes; there was a smell of wine, a long talk and a shout.
The game and dinner were over, but the guests had not yet left. Pierre threw off his cloak and entered the first room, where there were remnants of dinner and one footman, thinking that no one could see him, and drank the under-drunk glasses secretly. From the third room one could hear the rumble, laughter, the screams of familiar voices, and the roar of the bear. Eight young men crowded anxiously near the open window. Three of them were fiddling with a young bear, whom one was carrying on chains, frightening the other.
- I hold Stevens for a hundred! - shouting alone.
- Watch out not to support! - shouted the other one.
- I am for Dolokhov! - shouted the third one. - Dismantle, Kuragin.
- Come on, leave Bear, there's a bet.
- One spirit, otherwise it's lost," shouted the fourth.
- Jacob! Give me the bottle, Jacob!" the master himself, the tall, handsome man standing in the middle of the crowd in one thin shirt opened in the middle of his chest, shouted. - Wait, gentlemen. Here he is, Petrusha, a dear friend," he said to Pierre.
The other voice of a small man, with clear blue eyes, who was particularly impressed with his sober expression among these drunken voices, shouted from the window:
- Come here - break the bet! - It was Dolokhov, a Semyonov officer, a famous player and brethren who lived with Anatol. Pierre smiled, looking around him merrily.
- I don't understand anything. What's the matter? - He asked.
- Wait, he wasn't drunk. Give me the bottle," said Anatole, who took a glass off the table and went up to Pierre.
- First of all, drink.
Pierre drank a glass by the glass, sneaking around looking at the drunk guests who were crowding by the window again and listening to their words. Anatol poured him wine and told him that Dolokhov was betting with the Englishman Stevens, the sailor who had been here, that he, Dolokhov, would drink a bottle of rum sitting on the window of the third floor with his feet down.
- Well, drink all of it," said Anatole, serving the last glass to Pierre.
- No, I don't want to," said Pierre, pushing Anatole away, and came to the window.
Dolokhov held the Englishman's hand and clearly, clearly stated the terms of the bet, addressing mainly Anatoly and Pierre.
Dolokhov was a man of medium height, curly and with light blue eyes. He was twenty-five years old. He did not wear a mustache like all the infantry officers, and his mouth, the most striking feature of his face, was all visible. The lines of this mouth were remarkably finely curved. In the midst of the upper lip sank energetically to the strong lower sharp wedge, and in the corners formed a constant something like two smiles, one on each side, and all together, and especially in conjunction with a firm, insolent, clever look, it was as if it were impossible not to notice this face. Dolokhov was a poor man, without any connections. And despite the fact that Anatol lived tens of thousands, Dolokhov lived with him and managed to put himself in such a way that Anatol and all those who knew them respected Dolokhov more than Anatol. Dolokhov played all the games and almost always won. No matter how much he drank, he never lost his head. Both Kuragin and Dolokhov were celebrities in the world at the time, hanging and cursing St. Petersburg.
A bottle of rum was brought in; a frame that would not allow the window to sit on the outer slope was broken out by two footmen, apparently in a hurry and timid manner from the advice and shouts of the surrounding gentlemen.