The countess deliberated in tearful silence.

“I often think—perhaps it’s a sinful thought,” said the princess—“but I often think: here is Prince Kirill Vladimirovitch Bezuhov living all alone … that immense fortune … and what is he living for? Life is a burden to him, while Boris is only just beginning life.”

“He will be sure to leave something to Boris,” said the countess.

“God knows, chère amie! These wealthy grand people are such egoists. But still I’m going to see him at once with Boris, and I will tell him plainly the state of the case. People may think what they choose of me, I really don’t care, when my son’s fate depends on it.” The princess got up. “It’s now two o’clock, and you dine at four. I shall have time to drive there and back.”

And with the air of a Petersburg lady, used to business, and knowing how to make use of every moment, Anna Mihalovna sent for her son, and with him went out into the hall.

“Good-bye, my dear,” she said to the countess, who accompanied her to the door. “Wish me good-luck,” she added in a whisper unheard by her son.

“You’re going to Prince Kirill Vladimirovich’s, ma chère?” said the count, coming out of the dining-room into the hall. “If he’s better, invite Pierre to dine with us. He has been here; used to dance with the children. Be sure you invite him, ma chère. Now do come and look how Taras has surpassed himself to-day. He says Count Orlov never had such a dinner as we’re going to have to-day.”