“Well, that’s no matter,” said Prince Andrey. “Tell Countess Rostov from me that she was and is perfectly free, and that I wish her all prosperity.”

Pierre took the packet. Prince Andrey, as though reflecting whether he had not something more to say, or waiting for Pierre to say something, looked at him with a fixed gaze.

“Listen. Do you remember our discussion in Petersburg?” said Pierre. “Do you remember about—?”

“I remember,” Prince Andrey answered hurriedly. “I said that a fallen woman should be forgiven, but I did not say I could forgive one. I can’t.”

“How can you compare it? …” said Pierre.

Prince Andrey cut him short. He cried harshly: “Yes, ask her hand again, be magnanimous, and all that sort of thing? … Oh, that’s all very noble, but I’m not equal to following in that gentleman’s tracks. If you care to remain my friend, never speak to me of that … of all this business. Well, good-bye. So you’ll give that? …”

Pierre left him, and went in to the old prince and Princess Marya.

The old man seemed livelier than usual. Princess Marya was the same as usual, but behind her sympathy for her brother, Pierre detected her relief that her brother’s marriage was broken off. Looking at them, Pierre felt what a contempt and dislike they all had for the Rostovs; felt that it would be impossible in their presence even to mention the name of the girl who could give up Prince Andrey for any one in the world.

At dinner they talked of the coming war, of which there could now be no doubt in the near future. Prince Andrey talked incessantly, and argued first with his father, and then with Dessalle, the Swiss tutor. He seemed more eager than usual, with that eagerness of which Pierre knew so well the inner cause.