“Good Heavens! Mamma, Sonya, look; it’s he!”

“Who? who?”

“Look, do look! Bezuhov,” said Natasha, putting her head out of the carriage window and staring at a tall, stout man in a coachman’s long coat, obviously a gentleman disguised, from his carriage and gait. He was passing under the arch of the Suharev Tower beside a yellow-looking, beardless, little old man in a frieze cloak.

“Only fancy! Bezuhov in a coachman’s coat, with a queer sort of old-looking 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 is he. Stop, stop,” she shouted to the coachman; but the coachman could not stop, because more carts and carriages were coming out of Myeshtchansky Street, and people were shouting at the Rostovs to move on, 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 coat, and walking along the street with bent head and a serious face beside a little, beardless old man, who looked like a footman. This old man noticed a face poked out of the carriage window staring at them, and respectfully touching Pierre’s elbow, he said something to him, pointing towards the carriage. It was some time before Pierre understood what he was saying; he was evidently deeply absorbed in his own thoughts. At last he looked in the direction indicated, and recognising Natasha, he moved instantly towards the carriage, as though yielding to the first impulse. But after taking a dozen steps towards it, he stopped short, apparently recollecting something. Natasha’s head beamed out of the carriage window with friendly mockery.

“Pyotr Kirillitch, come here! We recognized you, you see! It’s a wonder!” she cried, stretching out a hand to him. “How is it? Why are you like this?”

Pierre took her outstretched hand, and awkwardly kissed it as he ran beside the still moving carriage.

“What has happened, count?” the countess asked him, in a surprised and 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 looking 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 splendid 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 battle again …” he was beginning, but Natasha interposed:

“But what is the matter, count? You are not like yourself …”