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Marya Dmitryevna went on for some time longer lecturing Natasha； and urging on her that it must all be kept from the count； that no one would know anything of it if Natasha would only undertake to forget it all； and not to show a sign to any one of anything having happened。 Natasha made no answer。 She did not sob any more； but she was taken with shivering fits and trembling。 Marya Dmitryevna put a pillow under her head； laid two quilts over her； and brought her some lime…flower water with her own hands； but Natasha made no response when she spoke to her。
“Well； let her sleep；” said Marya Dmitryevna； as she went out of the room； supposing her to be asleep。 But Natasha was not asleep； her wide…open eyes gazed straight before her out of her pale face。 All that night Natasha did not sleep； and did not weep； and said not a word to Sonya； who got up several times and went in to her。
Next day； at lunch time； as he had promised； Count Ilya Andreitch arrived from his estate in the environs。 He was in very good spirits： he had come to terms with the purchaser； and there was nothing now to detain him in Moscow away from his countess； for whom he was pining。 Marya Dmitryevna met him； and told him that Natasha had been very unwell on the previous day； that they had sent for a doctor； and that now she was better。 Natasha did not leave her room that morning。 With tightly shut； parched lips； and dry； staring eyes； she sat at the window uneasily watching the passers…by along the street； and hurriedly looking round at any one who entered her room。 She was obviously expecting news of him； expecting that he would come himself or would write to her。
When the count went in to her； she turned uneasily at the sound of his manly tread； and her face resumed its previous cold and even vindictive expression。 She did not even get up to meet him。
“What is it； my angel； are you ill？” asked the count。
Natasha was silent a moment。
“Yes； I am ill；” she answered。
In answer to the count’s inquiries why she was depressed and whether anything had happened with her betrothed； she assured him that nothing had； and begged him not to be uneasy。 Marya Dmitryevna confirmed Natasha’s assurances that nothing had happened。 From the pretence of illness； from his daughter’s agitated state； and the troubled faces of Sonya and Marya Dmitryevna； the count saw clearly that something had happened in his absence。 But it was so terrible to him to believe that anything disgraceful had happened to his beloved daughter； and he so prized his own cheerful serenity； that he avoided inquiries and tried to assure himself that it was nothing very out of the way； and only grieved that her indisposition would delay their return to the country。
Chapter 19
FROM THE DAY of his wife’s arrival in Moscow； Pierre had been intending to go away somewhere else； simply not to be with her。 Soon after the Rostovs’ arrival in Moscow； the impression made upon him by Natasha had impelled him to hasten in carrying out his intention。 He went to Tver to see the widow of Osip Alexyevitch； who had long before promised to give him papers of the deceased’s。
When Pierre came back to Moscow； he was handed a letter from Marya Dmitryevna； who summoned him to her on a matter of great importance； concerning Andrey Bolkonsky and his betrothed。 Pierre had been avoiding Natasha。 It seemed to him that he had for her a feeling stronger than a married man should have for a girl betrothed to his friend。 And some fate was continually throwing him into her company。
“What has happened？ And what do they want with me？” he thought as he dressed to go to Marya Dmitryevna’s。 “If only Prince Andrey would make haste home and marry her；” thought Pierre on the way to the house。
In the Tverskoy Boulevard some one shouted his name。
“Pierre！ Been back long？” a familiar voice called to him。 Pierre raised his head。 Anatole； with his everlasting companion Makarin； dashed by in a sledge with a pair of grey trotting…horses； who were kicking up the snow on to the forepart of the sledge。 Anatole was sitting in the classic pose of military dandies； the lower part of his face muffled in his beaver collar； and his head bent a little forward。 His face was fresh and rosy； his hat； with its white plume； was stuck on one side； showing his curled； pomaded hair； sprinkled with fine snow。
“Indeed； he is the real philosopher！” thought Pierre。 “He sees nothing beyond the present moment of pleasure； nothing worries him； and so he is always cheerful； satisfied； and serene。 What would I not give to be just like him！” Pierre mused with envy。
In Marya Dmitryevna’s entrance…hall the footman； as he took off Pierre’s fur coat； told him that his mistress begged him to come to her in her bedroom。
As he opened the door into the reception…room； Pierre caught sight of Natasha； sitting at the window with a thin； pale； and ill…tempered face。 She looked round at him； frowned； and with an expression of frigid dignity walked out of the room。
“What has happened？” asked Pierre； going in to Marya Dmitryevna。
“Fine doings；” answered Marya Dmitryevna。 “Fifty…eight years I have lived in the world—never have I seen anything so disgraceful。” And exacting from Pierre his word of honour not to say a word about all he was to hear； Marya Dmitryevna informed him that Natasha had broken off her engagement without the knowledge of her parents； that the cause of her doing so was Anatole Kuragin； with whom Pierre’s wife had thrown her； and with whom Natasha had attempted to elope in her father’s absence in order to be secretly married to him。
Pierre； with hunched shoulders and open mouth； listened to what Marya Dmitryevna was saying； hardly able to believe his ears。 That Prince Andrey’s fiancée； so passionately loved by him； Natasha Rostov； hitherto so charming； should give up Bolkonsky for that fool Anatole； who was married already （Pierre knew the secret of his marriage）； and be so much in love with him as to consent to elope with him—that Pierre could not conceive and could not comprehend。 He could not reconcile the sweet impression he had in his soul of Natasha； whom he had known from childhood； with this new conception of her baseness； folly； and cruelty。 He thought of his wife。 “They are all alike；” he said to himself； reflecting he was not the only man whose unhappy fate it was to be bound to a low woman。 But still he felt ready to weep with sorrow for Prince Andrey； with sorrow for his pride。 And the more he felt for his friend； the greater was the contempt and even aversion with which he thought of Natasha； who had just passed him with such an expression of rigid dignity。 He could not know that Natasha’s heart was filled with despair； shame； and humiliation； and that it was not her fault that her face accidentally expressed dignity and severity。
“What！ get married？” cried Pierre at Marya Dmitryevna’s words。 “He can’t get married； he is married。”
“Worse and worse；” said Marya Dmitryevna。 “He’s a nice youth。 A perfect scoundrel。 And she’s expecting him； she’s been expecting him these two days。 We must tell her； at least she will leave off expecting him。”
After learning from Pierre the details of Anatole’s marriage