“Another forfeit for a Gallicism,” said a Russian writer who was present. “'What pleasure is there to be' is not Russian!”
“You spare no one.” continued Julie to the young man without heeding the author's remark.
“For caustique—I am guilty and will pay, and I am prepared to pay again for the pleasure of telling you the truth. For Gallicisms I won't be responsible,” she remarked, turning to the author: “I have neither the money nor the time, like Prince Galítsyn, to engage a master to teach me Russian!”
“Ah, here he is!” she added. “Quand on. . . No, no,” she said to the militia officer, “you won't catch me. Speak of the sun and you see its rays!” and she smiled amiably at Pierre. “We were just talking of you,” she said with the facility in lying natural to a society woman. “We were saying that your regiment would be sure to be better than Mamónov's.”
“Oh, don't talk to me of my regiment,” replied Pierre, kissing his hostess' hand and taking a seat beside her. “I am so sick of it.”
“You will, of course, command it yourself?” said Julie, directing a sly, sarcastic glance toward the militia officer.
The latter in Pierre's presence had ceased to be caustic, and his face expressed perplexity as to what Julie's smile might mean. In spite of his absent-mindedness and good nature, Pierre's personality immediately checked any attempt to ridicule him to his face.
“No,” said Pierre, with a laughing glance at his big, stout body. “I should make too good a target for the French, besides I am afraid I should hardly be able to climb onto a horse.”
Among those whom Julie's guests happened to choose to gossip about were the Rostóvs.
“I hear that their affairs are in a very bad way,” said Julie. “And he is so unreasonable, the count himself I mean. The Razumóvskis wanted to buy his house and his estate near Moscow, but it drags on and on. He asks too much.”
“No, I think the sale will come off in a few days,” said someone. “Though it is madness to buy anything in Moscow now.”
“Why?” asked Julie. “You don't think Moscow is in danger?”
“Then why are you leaving?”
“I? What a question! I am going because. . . well, because everyone is going: and besides—I am not Joan of Arc or an Amazon.”
“Well, of course, of course! Let me have some more strips of linen.”
“If he manages the business properly he will be able to pay off all his debts,” said the militia officer, speaking of Rostóv.
“A kindly old man but not up to much. And why do they stay on so long in Moscow? They meant to leave for the country long ago. Natalie is quite well again now, isn't she?” Julie asked Pierre with a knowing smile.
“They are waiting for their younger son,” Pierre replied. “He joined Obolénski's Cossacks and went to Bélaya Tsérkov where the regiment is being formed. But now they have had him transferred to my regiment and are expecting him every day. The count wanted to leave long ago, but the countess won't on any account leave Moscow till her son returns.”
“I met them the day before yesterday at the Arkhárovs'. Natalie has recovered her looks and is brighter. She sang a song. How easily some people get over everything!”
“Get over what?” inquired Pierre, looking displeased.
Julie smiled.
“You know, Count, such knights as you are only found in Madame de Souza's novels.”
“What knights? What do you mean?” demanded Pierre, blushing.
“Oh, come, my dear count! C'est la fable de tout Moscou. Je vous admire, ma parole d'honneur!”[1]
“Forfeit, forfeit!” cried the militia officer.
“All right, one can't talk—how tiresome!”
“What is 'the talk of all Moscow'?” Pierre asked angrily, rising to his feet.
“Come now, Count, you know!”
“I don't know anything about it,” said Pierre.
“I know you were friendly with Natalie, and so. . . but I was always more friendly with Véra—that dear Véra.”
“No, madame!” Pierre continued in a tone of displeasure, “I have not taken on myself the role of Natalie Rostóva's knight at all, and have not been to their house for nearly a month. But I cannot understand the cruelty. . .”
“Qui s'excuse s'accuse,”[2] said Julie, smiling and waving the lint triumphantly, and to have the last word she promptly changed the subject. “Do you know what I heard today? Poor Mary Bolkónskaya arrived in Moscow yesterday. Do you know that she has lost her father?”
“Really? Where is she? I should like very
