War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [152]
Prince Vassily rose.
“Ma chère, je vous dirai, que c’est un moment que je n’oublierai jamais, jamais; mais, ma bonne, est-ce que vous ne nous donnerez pas un peu d’espérance de toucher ce coeur si bon, si généreux? Dites, que peut-être…L’avenir est si grand. Dites: peut-être.”*257
“Prince, what I said is all that is in my heart. I thank you for the honor, but I shall never be your son’s wife.”
“Well, that ends that, my dear. Very glad to see you, very glad to see you. Go to your room, Princess, go,” said the old prince. “Very, very glad to see you,” he repeated, putting his arm around Prince Vassily.
“My calling is different,” Princess Marya thought to herself, “my calling is to be happy with a different happiness, the happiness of love and self-sacrifice. And whatever the cost, I shall make for poor Amélie’s happiness. She loves him so passionately. She repents so passionately. I shall do everything to arrange her marriage to him. If he is not rich, I shall give her means. I shall ask father, and ask Andrei. I shall be so happy when she is his wife. She is so unhappy, a stranger, lonely, helpless! And, my God, how passionately she loves him, if she could so forget herself. I might have done the same!…” thought Princess Marya.
VI
For a long time the Rostovs had no news of Nikolushka; only in midwinter was the count handed a letter addressed in what he recognized as his son’s handwriting. On receiving the letter, the count fearfully and hastily, trying not to be noticed, ran on tiptoe to his study, shut himself in, and began to read. Anna Mikhailovna, learning (as she knew everything that went on in the house) of the letter that had come, went into the count’s study with soft steps, and found him with the letter in his hands, sobbing and laughing at the same time.
Anna Mikhailovna, though her affairs had improved, went on living with the Rostovs.
“Mon bon ami?” Anna Mikhailovna uttered with questioning sadness and a readiness for all sorts of sympathy.
The count sobbed still louder.
“Nikolushka…a letter…wounded…wa…was…ma chère…wounded…my darling boy…my little countess…promoted to officer…thank God…How shall I tell my little countess?…”
Anna Mikhailovna sat down beside him, took her handkerchief, wiped the tears from his eyes, the letter stained by them, and her own tears, read the letter, reassured the count, and decided that she would prepare the countess over dinner and before tea, and after tea would announce everything, with God’s help.
All through dinner, Anna Mikhailovna talked about rumors of the war, about Nikolushka; she asked twice when the last letter had come from him, though she already knew, and observed that a letter could very easily come that day. Each time these hints made the countess begin to worry and look anxiously now at the count, now at Anna Mikhailovna, Anna Mikhailovna quite imperceptibly turned the conversation to insignificant subjects. Natasha, the best endowed of all the family with the ability to detect the nuances of intonations, glances, and facial expressions, had pricked up her ears since the beginning of dinner, and knew that there was something between her father and Anna Mikhailovna, and something concerning her brother, and that Anna Mikhailovna was making preparations. In spite of all her boldness (Natasha knew how sensitive her mother was to everything that had to do with news of Nikolushka), she did not venture to ask any questions during dinner, and ate nothing from anxiousness, and fidgeted on her chair, not listening to her governess’s reproaches. After dinner, she rushed headlong after Anna Mikhailovna and threw herself on her neck at full speed in the sitting room.
“Auntie, darling, tell me, what is it?”
“Nothing, my friend.”
“No, my darling, my dear heart, my honey, my peach, I won’t let go, I know you know something.”
Anna Mikhailovna shook her head.
“Vous êtes une fine mouche, mon enfant,”*258 she said.
“A letter from