War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [380]
“But one way or another,” thought Sonya, standing in the dark corridor, “now or never, the time has come to prove that I remember the family’s kindness to me and that I love Nicolas. No, even if I don’t sleep for three nights, I won’t leave this corridor, and I’ll keep her back by force and not let shame fall upon their family,” she thought.
XVI
Anatole had recently moved in with Dolokhov. The plan for abducting Miss Rostov had been thought out and prepared by Dolokhov several days ago, and on the day when Sonya, listening at Natasha’s door, decided to keep watch on her, that plan was to be put into execution. Natasha had promised to come out to Kuragin on the back porch at ten o’clock in the evening. Kuragin was to put her into a waiting troika and take her to the village of Kamenka, forty miles from Moscow, where they had a defrocked priest waiting, who was to marry them. In Kamenka, a relay was ready to take them to the Warsaw road, and from there they were to go abroad by post.
Anatole had a passport, travel documents, ten thousand roubles taken from his sister, and ten thousand borrowed through the intermediary of Dolokhov.
Two witnesses—Khvostikov, a former clerk, whom Dolokhov made use of for gambling, and Makarin, a retired hussar, a kind-hearted and weak man, who had a boundless love for Kuragin—sat in the front room over tea.
In Dolokhov’s big study, its walls decorated up to the ceiling with Persian rugs, bearskins, and weapons, sat Dolokhov, in a traveling jacket and boots, before an open bureau on which lay an abacus and wads of money. Anatole, in an unbuttoned uniform, paced from the room where the witnesses sat, through the study, into the back room, where his French valet and others were packing the last of his belongings. Dolokhov was counting money and writing it down.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve got to give Khvostikov two thousand.”
“Well, give it to him,” said Anatole.
“Makarka” (as they called Makarin) “is disinterested, he’ll go through fire and water for you. Well, there, that’s the end of the accounting,” said Dolokhov, showing him the note. “Is it right?”
“Yes, of course it’s right,” said Anatole, who obviously was not listening to Dolokhov, and, with a smile that never left his face, he looked straight ahead.
Dolokhov slammed the bureau shut and turned to Anatole with a mocking smile.
“You know what—drop it all. There’s still time!” he said.
“Fool!” said Anatole. “Stop saying stupid things. If you knew…Devil knows what this is!”
“Drop it, really,” said Dolokhov. “I mean it. Do you think it’s a joke, what you’re up to?”
“What, teasing again? Go to hell! Eh?…” Anatole said, wincing. “I can’t keep on with your stupid jokes.” And he left the room.
Dolokhov smiled scornfully and condescendingly as Anatole went out.
“You wait,” he said behind him, “I’m not joking, I mean it, come here, come here.”
Anatole came into the room again and, trying to focus his attention, looked at Dolokhov, obviously obeying him involuntarily.
“Listen to me, I’m saying it to you for the last time. Why would I joke with you? Did I thwart you? Who arranged everything, who found the priest, who ordered the passport, who got the money? All me.”
“Well, and I thank you. Do you think I’m not grateful to you?” Anatole sighed and embraced Dolokhov.
“I helped you, but even so I have to tell you the truth: it’s a dangerous business, and, once you look at it, stupid. So you take her away—good. But are they going to let it stop there? They’ll find out you’re married. You’ll wind up in the criminal court…”
“Ah, nonsense, nonsense!” Anatole began, wincing again. “I explained it to you, didn’t I?” And with that special partiality which dullwitted people have when they work out some conclusion for themselves, Anatole repeated the argument that he had repeated to Dolokhov a hundred times. “I explained to you that I’ve decided: if this marriage is invalid,” he said, counting off one finger, “it means I’m not answerable; and if it’s valid, it makes no difference: nobody abroad will know