‘Oh, hello, Pierre,’ said the countess, coming over to her husband. ‘You’ve no idea what a predicament our Anatole finds himself in . . .’ She stopped short at the sight of her husband’s lowered head, the fire in his eye, the resolute tread – she had recognized the look of towering rage and dreadful power that she knew only too well from personal experience following the duel with Dolokhov.
‘Wherever you are, there’s bound to be vice and evil,’ said Pierre to his wife. ‘Anatole, come with me. I want a word with you,’ he said in French. Anatole glanced round at his sister, but got to his feet compliantly, ready to follow Pierre.
Pierre grabbed him by the arm, jerked him forwards and walked out of the room.
‘Please, not in my drawing-room . . .’ Hélène whispered, but there was no response from Pierre. He had gone.
Anatole followed on with his usual jaunty swagger. But there was an uneasy look on his face. Pierre went into his room, shut the door behind them and spoke to Anatole without looking at him. ‘Did you tell Countess Rostov you would marry her? Did you try to elope with her?’
‘My dear fellow,’ answered Anatole, in French (as was the whole conversation), ‘I do not feel obliged to answer questions addressed to me in that tone of voice.’
Pierre’s face, already pale, was now contorted with rage. With one huge hand he grabbed Anatole by the collar of his uniform, and proceeded to shake him from side to side until a sufficient degree of terror had registered on his face.
‘When I say
‘I say. This is ridiculous, isn’t it?’ said Anatole, fingering his collar where a button had been ripped away with a piece of cloth.
‘You’re a vile swine, and I have no idea what prevents me from permitting myself the pleasure of braining you with this,’ said Pierre. (The awkwardness of his speech was because it was in French.) He had picked up a heavy paperweight and was now wielding it ominously, but he soon put it back down again.
‘Did you promise to marry her?’
‘I, er . . . I never thought . . . I didn’t actually, er . . . because . . .’
Pierre cut him short.
‘Have you got any letters from her? Have you got any letters?’ Pierre repeated his question, bearing down on Anatole. Anatole took one look at him, stuffed his hand in his pocket and took out a wallet.
Pierre took the proffered letter, shoved a table out of the way and flopped down on the sofa.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to get violent,’ said Pierre in response to Anatole’s gesture of alarm. ‘Letters – that’s number one,’ said Pierre like a child going through a lesson. ‘Number two – ,’ he went on after a moment’s silence, getting to his feet again and starting to pace up and down, ‘you’re leaving Moscow tomorrow.’
‘But how can I? . . .’
‘And three . . .’ Pierre ignored him and went on, ‘you never breathe a word of what went on between you and the young countess. I know I can’t stop you, but if you have a grain of conscience . . .’
Pierre paced up and down the room several times without saying anything. Anatole sat there at the table, scowling and biting his lips.
‘When all’s said and done surely you can get it into your head that there is such a thing as other people’s happiness and peace of mind beyond your own pleasure – can’t you see you’re ruining someone’s whole life just for a bit of fun? Go and amuse yourself with women like my wife. You’re within your rights there – they know what you want from them. They’re armed against you because they’ve experienced the same kind of depravity, but promising marriage to a young girl, pulling the wool over her eyes, carrying her off! . . . Can’t you see – it’s so sordid, it’s like attacking an old man or a child! . . .’
Pierre paused and glanced at Anatole, with more curiosity now than anger.
‘Well, I’m not too sure about that, you know,’ said Anatole, regaining self-confidence as Pierre controlled his fury. ‘I’m not too sure about that – and I don’t want to be,’ he said, avoiding Pierre’s eyes and speaking with a slight tremor of the jaw, ‘but you’ve called me names – “sordid” and suchlike – which as a man of honour I can’t accept from anyone.’
Pierre looked at him in amazement, at a loss to understand what he could possibly want.
‘I know it’s all been in private,’ Anatole persisted. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t . . .’
‘What is it you want – satisfaction?’ said Pierre sarcastically.
‘Well, the least you could do is take it back, what? If you’re asking me to do what you want. How about that?’
‘Yes, yes, I take it all back,’ said Pierre, ‘and please forgive me.’ Pierre couldn’t take his eyes off the dangling button. ‘Yes, and here’s some money too. You might need it for the journey.’
Anatole smiled.
The look on his face, the mean, cringing smile that he knew so well from his wife, was the last straw for Pierre. ‘You’re a vile and callous breed!’ he cried, and stormed out of the room.
Next day Anatole left for Petersburg.
CHAPTER 21
