‘I think it might be best to throw ourselves on the mercy of this general,’ said Mademoiselle Bourienne. ‘I’m sure you’d be treated with proper courtesy.’
Princess Marya read the paper and her face crumpled with tearless sobbing.
‘Where did you get this?’ she asked.
‘They probably guessed I was French from my name,’ said Mademoiselle Bourienne, colouring up.
Proclamation in hand, Princess Marya rose from the window, walked out of the room, ashen-faced, and went straight into Prince Andrey’s former study.
‘Dunyasha! Send for Alpatych, Dronushka, anybody!’ said Princess Marya. ‘And tell Mademoiselle Bourienne to keep away,’ she added, hearing the Frenchwoman’s voice. ‘We must be on the road! On the road as soon as possible!’ said Princess Marya, horrified at the thought of falling into the hands of the French.
Oh, if Prince Andrey ever found out she was in the hands of the French! That she, the daughter of Prince Nikolay Andreich Bolkonsky, should be reduced to asking General Rameau for protection, and accepting favours from him! The very idea horrified her and gave her the shudders. She turned bright red and felt a surge of malevolence and sheer pride the like of which she had never felt before. She had a sudden vision of her present position: the difficulty was bad enough, but, oh, the humiliation! ‘They, the French, will settle down in this house. General Rameau will take over Prince Andrey’s study, and amuse himself by going through his letters and papers. Mademoiselle Bourienne will give them an honourable welcome to Bogucharovo. I shall get a little room as a special favour. The soldiers will break into father’s new grave to steal his crosses and medals. They’ll go on and on about their victories over the Russians, with lots of hypocritical sympathy for me in my grief . . .’ These thoughts did not come naturally to Princess Marya, but it was now her bounden duty to think like her father and brother. As far as she was concerned she could stay anywhere and do anything, but no, she must think like a true representative of her dead father and Prince Andrey. Instinctively she had begun to think their thoughts and feel their feelings. She felt the inevitability of saying and doing whatever they would have said or done. She went into Prince Andrey’s study, tried to get right inside his way of thinking, and considered her predicament.
The practicalities of life that had seemed so insignificant since her father’s death rose up again before Princess Marya with new, unparalleled intensity, and became an obsession.
Red in the face and over-excited, she paced the room, sending first for Alpatych, then Mikhail Ivanych, then Tikhon, then Dron. Dunyasha, the old nurse and the maids could not tell her how far Mademoiselle Bourienne had been right in what she said. Alpatych wasn’t in; he had gone to the police. A sleepy-eyed Mikhail Ivanych, the architect, came when he was sent for, but he had nothing to say to her. In response to her questions all he could do was smile the same smile of acquiescence he had got used to over fifteen years of responding non-committally to the old prince’s comments, so there were no definite answers to be got from him. The old valet, Tikhon, also came when called, his pinched and sunken features a picture of inconsolable grief; all he did was answer ‘Yes, ma’am,’ to every question put to him by Princess Marya, and as he looked at her he could scarcely contain his sobs.
At long last Dron, the village elder, turned up, and with a deep bow to the princess he stationed himself near the door.
Princess Marya paced the room and came to a halt face to face with him.
‘Dronushka,’ she said. Here was a staunch friend, the dear old Dronushka who had gone to the fair at Vyazma every year and come back smiling, with the same old gingerbread, his speciality, just for her. ‘Dronushka, ever since our sad loss . . .’ she began, and then stopped, unable to continue.
‘We are all in God’s hands,’ he said with a sigh.
Neither of them spoke.
‘Dronushka, Alpatych has gone off somewhere, and I’ve no one to turn to. Is it true what they say – I can’t get away?’
‘Why not, your Excellency? Of course you can,’ said Dron.
‘I’ve been told it’s too dangerous because of the enemy. My dear friend, there’s nothing I can do. I can’t tell what’s happening. I have nobody. I want to go, definitely, tonight, or first thing in the morning.’
Dron didn’t speak. He looked up rather furtively at Princess Marya.
‘There aren’t any horses,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been telling Yakov Alpatych.’
‘What do you mean, there aren’t any horses?’ said the princess.
‘It’s a punishment sent by the Lord,’ said Dron. ‘Some horses has gone off for the troops, and some be dead. What a year we’ve had. We’ll be lucky if we don’t die of hunger ourselves, never mind feeding the horses! As things is, some of ’em goes three days without a bite to eat. There’s nothing left. We’re all ruined.’
Princess Marya listened carefully to what he was saying.
