War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [149]
“How she loves me!” thought Princess Marya. “How happy I am now, and how happy I may be with such a friend and such a husband! Can it be—a husband?” she thought, not daring to look up at his face, still feeling that same gaze directed at her.
In the evening, when they all began to disperse after supper, Anatole kissed Princess Marya’s hand. She did not know herself how she had boldness enough, but she glanced straight at the beautiful face as it approached her nearsighted eyes. After the princess, he went to kiss Mlle Bourienne’s hand (this was improper, but he did everything so confidently and simply), and Mlle Bourienne blushed and glanced fearfully at the princess.
“Quelle délicatesse!”*250 thought the princess. “Can Amélie” (that was Mlle Bourienne’s name) “really think I could be jealous of her and not appreciate her pure affection for and devotion to me?” She went over to Mlle Bourienne and kissed her warmly. Anatole went to kiss the little princess’s hand.
“Non, non, non! Quand votre père m’écrira, que vous vous conduisez bien, je vous donnerai ma main à baiser. Pas avant.”†251
And, raising her finger and smiling, she left the room.
V
They all dispersed and, except for Anatole, who fell asleep as soon as he lay down, it was long before anyone slept that night.
“Can it be that he’s my husband, precisely this stranger, this handsome, kind man—above all, kind,” thought Princess Marya, and fear, which hardly ever came to her, came over her now. She was afraid to look around; she fancied someone was standing there behind the screen, in the dark corner. And that someone was he—the devil—and he was this man with the white forehead, black eyebrows, and red mouth.
She rang for the maid and asked her to sleep in her room.
Mlle Bourienne spent a long time that evening walking in the winter garden, vainly waiting for someone and now smiling at someone, now waxing tearful, touched in her imagination by the words of sa pauvre mère reproaching her for her fall.
The little princess grumbled at her maid because the bed was not right. It was impossible for her to lie either on her side or on her front. Everything was heavy and awkward. Her belly got in her way. It got in her way more than ever precisely today, because Anatole’s presence transported her more vividly into another time, when it was not there, and everything was light and merry for her. She sat in an armchair in her bed-jacket and nightcap. Katya, sleepy and with her braid tangled, plumped up and turned the heavy featherbed for the third time, muttering something.
“I told you, it’s all bumps and hollows,” the little princess repeated. “I’d be glad to fall asleep myself, so it’s not my fault.” And her voice quavered, like the voice of a child who is about to cry.
The old prince was also awake. Tikhon, through his sleep, heard him pacing about angrily and snorting through his nose. It seemed to the old prince that he was offended for his daughter. The offense was most painful because it concerned not himself but another, his daughter, whom he loved more than himself. He told himself that he would think over the whole matter again and find what was fair and ought to be done, but instead he only irritated himself more.
“The first comer turns up—and her father and everything’s forgotten, and she runs, does her hair up, and wags her tail, and isn’t like herself at all! Glad to abandon her father! She knew I’d notice. Snort…snort…snort…As if I don’t see that this fool is only looking at Bourrienka (she must be thrown out)! And how can she not have enough pride to realize it! If she has no pride for herself, at least she could have it for me. She must be shown that that blockhead doesn’t even give her a thought, but is only looking at Bourienne. She has no pride, but I’ll show her that she…”
By telling his daughter that she was mistaken, that Anatole