“Where is he?” she asked once more, addressing them all.

“He is downstairs; Natasha is with him,” answered Sonya, flushing. “We have sent to ask. You are tired, I expect, princess?”

Tears of vexation came into Princess Marya’s eyes. She turned away and was about to ask the countess again where she could see him, when she heard at the door light, eager steps that sounded to her full of gaiety. She looked round and saw, almost running in, Natasha — that Natasha whom she had so disliked when they met long before in Moscow.

But Princess Marya had hardly glanced at Natasha’s face before she understood that here was one who sincerely shared her grief, and was therefore her friend. She flew to meet her, and embracing her, burst into tears on her shoulder.

As soon as Natasha, sitting by Prince Andrey’s bedside, heard of Princess Marya’s arrival, she went softly out of the room with those swift steps that to Princess Marya sounded so light-hearted, and ran to see her.

As she ran into the room, her agitated face wore one expression — an expression of love, of boundless love for him, for her, for all that was near to the man she loved — an expression of pity, of suffering for others, and of passionate desire to give herself up entirely to helping them. It was clear that at that moment there was not one thought of self, of her own relation to him, in Natasha’s heart.

Princess Marya with her delicate intuition saw all that in the first glance at Natasha’s face, and with mournful relief wept on her shoulder.

“Come, let us go to him, Marie,” said Natasha, drawing her away into the next room.

Princess Marya lifted up her head, dried her eyes, and turned to Natasha. She felt that from her she would learn all, would understand all. “How …” she was beginning, but stopped short. She felt that no question nor answer could be put into words. Natasha’s face and eyes would be sure to tell her all more clearly and more profoundly.

Natasha looked at her, but seemed to be in dread and in doubt whether to say or not to say all she knew; she seemed to feel that before those luminous eyes, piercing to the very bottom of her heart, it was impossible not to tell the whole, whole truth as she saw it. Natasha’s lip suddenly twitched, ugly creases came round her mouth, and she broke into sobs, hiding her face in her hands.

Princess Marya knew everything.

But still she could not give up hope, and asked in words, though she put no faith in them:

“But how is his wound? What is his condition altogether?”

“You … you will see that,” was all Natasha could say.

They sat a little while below, near his room, to control their tears and go in to him with calm faces.

“How has the whole illness gone? Has he been worse for long? When did this happen?” Princess Marya asked.

Natasha told her that at first there had been danger from inflammation and the great pain, but that that had passed away at Troitsa, and the doctor had only been afraid of one thing — gangrene. But the risk of that, too, was almost over. When they reached Yaroslavl, the wound had begun to suppurate (Natasha knew all about suppuration and all the rest of it), and the doctor had said that the suppuration might follow the regular course. Fever had set in. The doctor had said this fever was not so serious.