Scene 1: 1804. A ballroom in Paris, France.
Pierre later blamed his shyness, which had kept him off the dancefloor. Andrei, smiling, blamed Pierre's clumsiness, his inattention, or his own aversion to dancing. To anybody else, there would have seemed no need for a reason: it was an accident, albeit one with unusual and far reaching consequences.
Pierre picked a way around the edge of the ballroom, his eyes on the dancers in apprehension, and not on where he was going. He walked right into the shorter man stood by a window. "Oh, I beg your pardon!"
Andrei looked across at the young man who'd just bumped into him. He was blushing furiously, trying to look smaller than his impressive height, and barely out of his teens. Andrei smiled coolly, and replied in accented French, "There is no need – you were watching the dancing, as any man might, and not your steps."
"Oh! You're a Russian!" the young man exclaimed suddenly. "I recognise the accent of a countryman – I'm Russian, too, you see, only I have lived here in Paris for the last two and a half years."
"Is that true?" The prince raised an eyebrow at the young man's eagerness. "That would be why I took you for a Frenchman at first."
"I hope my Russian is not suffering," Pierre replied, his blush fading, and added in that tongue, "My name is Pierre – Piotr Kirillovich Bezuhov."
"It's a pleasure to meet you," replied Andrei, in Russian and in a tone that implied it was not. "Andrei Nikolayevich Bolkonsky – you are the son of Count Bezuhov?" Illegitimate, but likely to be heir to the title all the same, and sent abroad to be educated in preparation as much as to keep him out of the way – if the rumours were true, Andrei mused.
"Y-yes," Pierre replied, and that slight stammer gave Andrei all the information he needed. Pierre blushed again, knowing the prince would know all about his position. However, Andrei let the matter drop, and their conversation passed onto the more mundane topics of Russian and Parisian life.
Prince Andrei would have left it at that – their acquaintance a brief one, to be renewed only at society functions and the occasional dinner party, like the majority of his relationships. He was unsure what he thought of the overly eager and awkward young man.
But Pierre called on him the week following their first meeting, looking for more news of his homeland. Andrei returned the visit as courtesy required, and found himself agreeing to dine with Pierre. They talked – of politics, of religion, of history. Pierre's need for an explanation, a rationalisation, a discussion of everything from their own meeting to ancient battles bemused Andrei. Sometimes it frustrated him, but nonetheless he became fond of Pierre, and his company, and the way the younger man looked up to him. He entered into conversations with Pierre he would not have dared to have with anyone else, and never-ending arguments made hopeless by his stubbornness and Pierre's earnest conviction.
There was one argument that changed everything.