The chairs were rearranged and people began to sit down. Anatole moved a chair aside for Natasha and was about to sit down next to her, but the count, who was keeping a wary eye on his daughter, sat down there himself. Anatole took his place behind them.
Mademoiselle George came out with a red scarf flung over one shoulder and her bare, fat, dimpled arms on show. She walked into the empty space reserved for her between the chairs, and struck a theatrical pose. There was a murmur of excited anticipation.
Mademoiselle George surveyed her audience sternly with her gloomy eyes before launching forth into a French poem about the guilty love of a mother for her son. In some places she raised her voice, in others she dropped to a whisper, raising her head triumphantly or pausing now and then to spit out her words with a throaty hiss and much rolling of the eyes.
‘Exquisite, divine, so lovely!’ came the voices on all sides. Natasha was watching the fat lady, but she couldn’t hear anything, see anything or take in anything that was happening. She had no feelings other than being borne away irrevocably back to that strange, crazy world so remote from the world she had known before, a world in which there was no telling right from wrong or good sense from madness. Behind her sat Anatole; conscious of his proximity, she squirmed between anxiety and expectation.
After the first monologue the whole company rose and surrounded Mademoiselle George in rapturous acclamation.
‘Isn’t she beautiful!’ said Natasha to her father, as he got up with the rest and struggled through the crowd towards the actress.
‘I would say no, looking at you,’ said Anatole, following behind Natasha. He picked his moment to say it, when she was the only one who could hear. ‘You’re so lovely . . . from the moment I saw you I haven’t stopped . . .’
‘Come on, Natasha, over here!’ said the count, turning back for his daughter. ‘How beautiful she is!’
Natasha didn’t speak as she caught up with her father and stared at him with eyes full of wonderment and unanswered questions.
Several recitations later Mademoiselle George departed and Countess Bezukhov invited all the guests into the great hall.
The count tried to get away, but Hélène pleaded with him not to spoil their impromptu ball. The Rostovs stayed on. Anatole asked Natasha for a waltz, and while they were dancing he squeezed her waist and her hand and told her she was enchanting and he was in love with her. During the écossaise, which she also danced with him, when they were on their own Anatole said nothing – he just stared at her. Natasha doubted herself – could she have dreamt what he had said to her during the waltz? At the end of the first figure he squeezed her hand again. Natasha looked up nervously into his face, but there was so much assurance and warmth in his fond look and smile that as she glanced at him she couldn’t bring herself to say what had to be said. She looked down again.
‘Please don’t say things like that. I’m engaged to be married, and I love someone else . . .’ she gabbled. She glanced up. Anatole was not in the least disconcerted or embarrassed by what she had said.
‘Don’t tell me about that. What difference does it make?’ he said. ‘Listen – I’m in love with you, madly in love. Is it my fault you’re so irresistible? . . . Look, it’s our turn to start . . .’
In her state of high excitement and alarm Natasha stared round, wide-eyed and fearful, though apparently enjoying herself more than usual. She remembered almost nothing of what took place that evening. They had danced the écossaise and the Grossvater. Her father had wanted them to go, and she had begged him to let them stay on. No matter where she went and who she talked to, she could feel his eyes on her. Then she had asked her father’s permission to leave the room in order to rearrange her dress, and Hélène had followed her out, chatting away and laughing at her brother’s passion, and then she remembered coming across Anatole again in the little sitting-room, and Hélène had somehow disappeared, they were left alone, and Anatole had taken her by the hand and said to her so tenderly, ‘I can’t come and see you, but can I really never see you again? I’m madly in love with you. Can I never . . . ?’ and barring her way, he had brought his face up close to hers.
His big, gleaming, manly eyes were so close to hers that she could see nothing else.
‘Natalie?’ His question had dropped to a whisper, and her hands were being squeezed until they hurt. ‘Natalie?’
‘I don’t understand. There’s nothing I can say.’ The response was written in her eyes.
Burning lips were pressed against hers, then she was instantly free again – and with a shuffling of shoes and a rustling of silks Hélène was back in the room. Natasha had glanced round at her, then, red-faced and quivering, looked back at him, full of alarm and unanswered questions, before walking over to the door.
