“Get over what?” Pierre asked, looking displeased.

Julie smiled.

“O count, you know, such chivalrous knights as you are only to be found in Madame Suza’s novels.”

“Knights! What do you mean?” Pierre asked blushing.

“Come now, my dear count. C’est la fable de tout Moscou. Je vous admire, ma parole d’honneur.”

“Forfeit! forfeit!” said the volunteer.

“Oh, very well. One cannot talk, what a bore it is!”

“What is the talk of all Moscow?” said Pierre angrily, rising to his feet.

“Nonsense, count, you know!”

“I know nothing about it,” said Pierre.

“I know what great friends you have always been with Natalie, and so … But, I was always more friendly with Vera. That darling Vera.”

“No, madam,” Pierre persisted in a tone of annoyance. “I have by no means taken upon myself the rôle of Countess Rostov’s knight; indeed, it’s almost a month since I have been near them. But I cannot understand the cruelty …”

Qui s’excuse s’accuse,” cried Julie, smiling, and waving the lint triumphantly, and that she might have the last word, she promptly changed the subject. “By the way, I have heard poor Marie Bolkonsky arrived in Moscow yesterday. Have you heard she has lost her father?”

“Really? Where is she? I should like to see her,” said Pierre.

“I spent the evening with her yesterday. She is going on to-day or to-morrow morning to their estate in the province with her nephew.”

“Well, how is she? Tell me,” said Pierre.

“Oh, she is well, but very sad. But do you know who rescued her? It is quite a romance. Nikolay Rostov. She was surrounded; they tried to kill her and wounded her servants. He rushed in and saved her.…”

“Another romance,” said the volunteer. “This general flight is evidently intended to marry off all the old maids. Katish is one, Princess Bolkonsky another.”

“You know, I really do believe she’s un petit peu amoureuse du jeune bomme.”

“Forfeit! forfeit! forfeit!”

“But how is one to say that in Russian?”


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