, ‘Only fancy! Bezuhov in a coachman’s coat, with a queer sort of old- coking boy,’ said Natasha. ‘Do look; do look!’
‘No, it’s not he. How can you be so absurd!’
‘Mamma,’ cried Natasha. ‘On my word of honour, I assure you, it i he. Stop, stop,’ she shouted to the coachman; but the coachman cou! not stop, because more carts and carriages were coming out of Myesht chansky Street, and people were shouting at the Rostovs to move or and not to keep the rest of the traffic waiting.
All the Rostovs did, however, though now at a much greater distance see Pierre, or a man extraordinarily like him, wearing a coachman’s coal and walking along the street with bent head and a serious face beside . I little, beardless old man, who looked like a footman. This old man notice' a face poked out of the carriage window staring at them, and respectful! ’ touching Pierre’s elbow, he said something to him, pointing towards th carriage. It was some time before Pierre understood what he was saying he was evidently deeply absorbed in his own thoughts. At last he looke in the direction indicated, and recognising Natasha, he moved instant! towards the carriage, as though yielding to the first impulse. But afte taking a dozen steps towards it, he stopped short, apparently recollectin something. Natasha’s head beamed out of the carriage window wit! friendly mockery.
‘Pyotr Kirillitch, come here! We recognized you, you see! It’s : wonder! ’ she cried, stretching out a hand to him. ‘How is it? Why are yoi like this?’
Pierre took her outstretched hand, and awkwardly kissed it as he ra| beside the still moving carriage.
‘What has happened, count?’ the countess asked him, in a surprised am commiserating tone.
‘Eh? Why? Don’t ask me,’ said Pierre, and he looked up at Natasha ' the charm of whose radiant, joyous eyes he felt upon him without lookin at her.
‘What are you doing, or are you staying.in Moscow?’
Pierre was silent.
‘In Moscow?’ he queried. ‘Yes, in Moscow. Good-bye.’
‘Oh, how I wish I were a man, I would stay with you. Ah, how splendii that is! ’ said Natasha. ‘Mamma, do let me stay.’
Pierre looked absently at Natasha, and was about to say something but the countess interrupted him.
‘You were at the battle, we have been told.’
‘Yes, I was there,’ answered Pierre. ‘To-morrow there will be a battl again . . .’ he was beginning, but Natasha interposed:
‘But what is the matter, count? You are not like yourself . . .’
‘Oh, don’t ask me, don’t ask me, I don’t know myself. To-morrow . . No! Good-bye; good-bye,’ he said; ‘it’s an awful time!’ And he left th carriage and walked away to the pavement.
For a long while Natasha’s head was still thrust out of the carriag window, and she beamed at him with a kindly and rather mocking, joyou smile.
XVIII
’rom the time of his disappearance, two days before, Pierre had been ving in the empty abode of his dead benefactor, Osip Bazdyev. This 'as how it had come to pass.
On waking up the morning after his return to Moscow and his interview Hth Count Rastoptchin, Pierre could not for some time make out where e was and what was expected of him. When the names of the persons waiting to see him were announced to him—among them a Frenchman, 'ho had brought a letter from his wife, the Countess Elena Vassilyevna he felt suddenly overcome by that sense of the hopelessness and in- ricacy of his position to which he was particularly liable. He suddenly £lt that everything was now at an end, everything was in a muddle, yerything was breaking down, that no one was right nor wrong, that fiere was no future before him, and that there was no possible escape -om the position. Smiling unnaturally and muttering to himself, he sat n the sofa in a pose expressive of utter hopelessness, or got up, ap- roached the door, and peeped through the crack into the reception- 90m, where his visitors were awaiting him, then turned back with a esture of despair and took up a book. The butler came in for the second me with a message that the Frenchman who had brought the letter rom the countess was very desirous of seeing him if only for a minute, nd that they had sent from the widow of Osip Alexyevitch Bazdyev to sk him to take charge of some books, as Madame Bazdyev was going way into the country.
‘Oh, yes, in a minute; wait . . . No, no; go and say, I am coming nmediately,’ said Pierre.
