Pierre met the old count. He seemed nervous and upset. That morning Natasha had told him she had broken off her engagement to Bolkonsky.
‘Trouble, nothing but trouble, my dear fellow,’ he said to Pierre, ‘when these girls are away from their mother. I’m sorry I ever came. I won’t beat about the bush. Maybe you’ve heard – she’s broken off her engagement without a word to a soul. I must admit I never did like the idea of them getting married. Oh, I know he’s a fine man, but there was never going to be much happiness with them going against his father like that, and Natasha will never be short of suitors. Still, it had been going on for such a long time . . . but how could she do such a thing without a word to her father and mother? And now she’s ill, and God knows what’s wrong with her. It’s an awful thing, Count, a really awful thing to take your daughters away from their mother . . .’
Pierre could see the count was terribly upset, and he kept trying to change the subject but the count came back time and again to his woes.
Sonya came into the drawing-room, long in the face.
‘Natasha’s not too well. She’s up in her room and would like to see you. Marya Dmitriyevna’s with her and she wants you there too.’
‘Yes, of course, you’re such a great friend of Bolkonsky’s. She probably wants to send him a message,’ said the count. ‘Oh dear, oh dear! Everything was going so well!’ And the count walked out of the room clutching at his few grey hairs.
Marya Dmitriyevna had told Natasha that Anatole was already married. Natasha didn’t believe her, and insisted on confirmation from Pierre’s own lips. Sonya told Pierre this much as she led him down the corridor to Natasha’s room.
Natasha was sitting beside Marya Dmitriyevna, looking pale and serious, and she met Pierre at the door with a quizzical glare of feverish intensity. She neither smiled nor nodded, she just stared at him and her look asked a simple question: was he a friend or an enemy like the rest of them, as far as Anatole was concerned? Pierre the man clearly didn’t exist for her.
‘He knows the whole story,’ said Marya Dmitriyevna to Natasha. ‘Let him say whether I’m telling the truth or not.’
Like a wounded animal at bay watching the dogs and the hunt close in, Natasha looked from one to the other.
‘Natalya,’ Pierre began, looking down with a feeling of pity for her and revulsion at the operation he had to perform, ‘true or not, what difference does it make? You see . . .’
‘So it’s not true that he’s married?’
‘I’m afraid it is.’
‘He
Pierre swore on his word of honour.
‘Is he still here?’ she gabbled.
‘Yes. I saw him a few minutes ago.’
Speech being clearly beyond her, she gestured with both hands for them to go away and leave her alone.
CHAPTER 20
Instead of staying to dinner Pierre drove away immediately after leaving Natasha’s room. He scoured the town in search of Anatole Kuragin. At the very thought of this man the blood rushed to his heart and he could hardly breathe. He was nowhere to be found, not on the ice-hills, not at the gypsies’, not at Comoneno’s. Pierre drove to the club. In there it was just like any normal day with members coming in for dinner and sitting around in groups. They greeted Pierre and went on talking about the city and the latest news. A footman well accustomed to Pierre’s friends and habits greeted him, and said several things: a place had been left for him in the small dining-room, Prince Mikhail Zakharych was in the library, and Pavel Timofeich had not yet come in. One of Pierre’s acquaintances broke off from chatting about the weather to ask if he’d heard about Kuragin’s abduction of young Countess Rostov, which was the talk of the town, but was it true? Pierre laughed it off as a bit of nonsense, having just come from the Rostovs’. He asked after Anatole; one man said he wasn’t in yet, another said he was expected for dinner. It felt strange for Pierre to look round at that quiet crowd of uninvolved people, who had no knowledge of what turmoil his spirit was going through. He wandered from room to room, waited for everyone to arrive, and then, with no sign of Anatole, he abandoned dinner and set off for home.
His prey, Anatole, was dining that day with Dolokhov, and the pair of them were trying to work out how the plan that had ended in failure could be made to succeed. According to Anatole it was vital for him to see Natasha, so that evening he went round to his sister’s to discuss with her how another meeting could be arranged. When Pierre got back home after his fruitless tour of the city his valet told him that Prince Anatole was in with the countess. The countess’s drawing-room was full of guests.
Pierre completely ignored his wife even though he hadn’t seen her since his return – at that moment he loathed her more than ever – strode into the drawing-room, spotted Anatole and went over to him.
