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ther—come to look at their master making merry。
“Our little father！ An eagle he is！” the old nurse said out loud at one door。
The count danced well and knew that he did； but his partner could not dance at all； and did not care about dancing well。 Her portly figure stood erect； with her mighty arms hanging by her side （she had handed her reticule to the countess）。 It was only her stern； but comely face that danced。 What was expressed by the whole round person of the count； was expressed by Marya Dmitryevna in her more and more beaming countenance and puckered nose。 While the count； with greater and greater expenditure of energy； enchanted the spectators by the unexpectedness of the nimble pirouettes and capers of his supple legs； Marya Dmitryevna with the slightest effort in the movement of her shoulders or curving of her arms； when they turned or marked the time with their feet； produced no less impression from the contrast； which everyone appreciated； with her portliness and her habitual severity of demeanour。 The dance grew more and more animated。 The vis…à…vis could not obtain one moment’s attention； and did not attempt to do so。 All attention was absorbed by the count and Marya Dmitryevna。 Natasha pulled at the sleeve or gown of every one present； urging them to look at papa； though they never took their eyes off the dancers。 In the pauses in the dance the count drew a deep breath； waved his hands and shouted to the musician to play faster。 More and more quickly； more and more nimbly the count pirouetted； turning now on his toes and now on his heels； round Marya Dmitryevna。 At last； twisting his lady round to her place； he executed the last steps； kicking his supple legs up behind him； and bowing his perspiring head and smiling face； with a round sweep of his right arm； amidst a thunder of applause and laughter； in which Natasha’s laugh was loudest。 Both partners stood still； breathing heavily； and mopping their faces with their batiste handkerchiefs。
“That’s how they used to dance in our day； ma chère； said the count。
“Bravo； Daniel Cooper！” said Marya Dmitryevna； tucking up her sleeves and drawing a deep； prolonged breath。
Chapter 18
WHILE IN THE ROSTOVS’ HALL they were dancing the sixth anglaise； while the weary orchestra played wrong notes； and the tired footmen and cooks were getting the supper； Count Bezuhov had just had his sixth stroke。 The doctors declared that there was no hope of recovery； the sick man received absolution and the sacrament while unconscious。 Preparations were being made for administering extreme unction； and the house was full of the bustle and thrill of suspense usual at such moments。 Outside the house undertakers were crowding beyond the gates； trying to escape the notice of the carriages that drove up； but eagerly anticipating a good order for the count’s funeral。 The governor of Moscow； who had been constantly sending his adjutants to inquire after the count’s condition； came himself that evening to say good…bye to the renowned grandee of Catherine’s court； Count Bezuhov。
The magnificent reception…room was full。 Every one stood up respectfully when the governor； after being half an hour alone with the sick man； came out of the sick…room。 Bestowing scanty recognition on the bows with which he was received； he tried to escape as quickly as possible from the gaze of the doctors； ecclesiastical personages； and relations。 Prince Vassily； who had grown paler and thinner during the last few days； escorted the governor out； and softly repeated something to him several times over。
After seeing the governor； Prince Vassily sat down on a chair in the hall alone； crossing one leg high over the other； leaning his elbow on his knee； and covering his eyes with his hand。 After sitting so for some time he got up； and with steps more hurried than his wont； he crossed the long corridor； looking round him with frightened eyes； and went to the back part of the house to the apartments of the eldest princess。
The persons he had left in the dimly lighted reception…room； next to the sick…room； talked in broken whispers among themselves； pausing； and looking round with eyes full of suspense and inquiry whenever the door that led into the dying man’s room creaked as some one went in or came out。
“Man’s limitation；” said a little man； an ecclesiastic of some sort； to a lady； who was sitting near him listening na？vely to his words—“his limitation is fixed； there is no overstepping it。”
“I wonder if it won’t be late for extreme unction？” inquired the lady； using his clerical title； and apparently having no opinion of her own on the matter。
“It is a great mystery； ma’am；” answered the clerk； passing his hands over his bald head； on which lay a few tresses of carefully combed； half grey hair。
“Who was that？ was it the governor himself？” they were asking at the other end of the room。 “What a young…looking man！”
“And he’s over sixty！。 … What； do they say； the count does not know any one？ Do they mean to give extreme unction？”
“I knew a man who received extreme unction seven times。”
The second princess came out of the sick…room with tearful eyes； and sat down beside Doctor Lorrain； who was sitting in a graceful pose under the portrait of Catherine； with his elbow on the table。
“Very fine；” said the doctor in reply to a question about the weather； “very fine； princess； and besides； at Moscow； one might suppose oneself in the country。”
“Might one not？” said the princess； sighing。 “So may he have something to drink？” Lorrain thought a moment。
“He has taken his medicine？”
“Yes。”
The doctor looked at his memoranda。
“Take a glass of boiled water and put in a pinch” （he showed with his delicate fingers what was meant by a pinch） “of cream of tartar。”
“There has never been a case；” said the German doctor to the adjutant； speaking broken Russian； “of recovery after having a third stroke。”
“And what a vigorous man he was！” said the adjutant。 “And to whom will his great wealth go？” he added in a whisper。
“Candidates will be found；” the German replied； smiling。 Every one looked round again at the door； it creaked； and the second princess having made the drink according to Lorrain’s direction； carried it into the sick…room。 The German doctor went up to Lorrain。
“Can it drag on till to…morrow morning？” asked the German； with a vile French accent。
Lorrain； with compressed lips and a stern face； moved his finger before his nose to express a negative。
“To…night； not later；” he said softly； and with a decorous smile of satisfaction at being able to understand and to express the exact position of the sick man； he walked away。
Meanwhile Prince Vassily had opened the door of the princess’s room。
It was half dark in the room； there were only two lamps burning before the holy pictures； and there was a sweet perfume of incense and flowers。 The whole room was furnished with miniature furniture； little sideboards； small bookcases； and small tables。 Behind a screen could be seen the white coverings of a high feather…bed。 A little dog barked。
“Ah； is that you； mon cousin？”
She got up and smoothed her hair； which was always； even now； so extraordinaril