第 一百六十五 章 · 第165章

Pierre did not stay for dinner, but left the room and went away at once.

He drove through the town seeking Anatole Kurágin, at the thought of

whom now the blood rushed to his heart and he felt a difficulty in

breathing. He was not at the ice hills, nor at the gypsies’, nor at

Komoneno’s. Pierre drove to the Club. In the Club all was going on as

usual. The members who were assembling for dinner were sitting about

in groups; they greeted Pierre and spoke of the town news. The footman

having greeted him, knowing his habits and his acquaintances, told him

there was a place left for him in the small dining room and that Prince

Michael Zakhárych was in the library, but Paul Timoféevich had not yet

arrived. One of Pierre’s acquaintances, while they were talking about

the weather, asked if he had heard of Kurágin’s abduction of Rostóva

which was talked of in the town, and was it true? Pierre laughed and

said it was nonsense for he had just come from the Rostóvs’. He asked

everyone about Anatole. One man told him he had not come yet, and

another that he was coming to dinner. Pierre felt it strange to see this

calm, indifferent crowd of people unaware of what was going on in his

soul. He paced through the ballroom, waited till everyone had come, and

as Anatole had not turned up did not stay for dinner but drove home.

Anatole, for whom Pierre was looking, dined that day with Dólokhov,

consulting him as to how to remedy this unfortunate affair. It seemed to

him essential to see Natásha. In the evening he drove to his sister’s

to discuss with her how to arrange a meeting. When Pierre returned home

after vainly hunting all over Moscow, his valet informed him that Prince

Anatole was with the countess. The countess’ drawing room was full of

guests.

Pierre without greeting his wife whom he had not seen since his

return—at that moment she was more repulsive to him than ever—entered

the drawing room and seeing Anatole went up to him.

“Ah, Pierre,” said the countess going up to her husband. “You don’t know

what a plight our Anatole...”

She stopped, seeing in the forward thrust of her husband’s head, in his

glowing eyes and his resolute gait, the terrible indications of that

rage and strength which she knew and had herself experienced after his

duel with Dólokhov.

“Where you are, there is vice and evil!” said Pierre to his wife.

“Anatole, come with me! I must speak to you,” he added in French.

Anatole glanced round at his sister and rose submissively, ready to

follow Pierre. Pierre, taking him by the arm, pulled him toward himself

and was leading him from the room.

“If you allow yourself in my drawing room...” whispered Hélène, but

Pierre did not reply and went out of the room.

Anatole followed him with his usual jaunty step but his face betrayed

anxiety.

Having entered his study Pierre closed the door and addressed Anatole

without looking at him.

“You promised Countess Rostóva to marry her and were about to elope with

her, is that so?”

“Mon cher,” answered Anatole (their whole conversation was in French),

“I don’t consider myself bound to answer questions put to me in that

tone.”

Pierre’s face, already pale, became distorted by fury. He seized Anatole

by the collar of his uniform with his big hand and shook him from side

to side till Anatole’s face showed a sufficient degree of terror.

“When I tell you that I must talk to you!...” repeated Pierre.

“Come now, this is stupid. What?” said Anatole, fingering a button of

his collar that had been wrenched loose with a bit of the cloth.

“You’re a scoundrel and a blackguard, and I don’t know what deprives

me from the pleasure of smashing your head with this!” said Pierre,

expressing himself so artificially because he was talking French.

He took a heavy paperweight and lifted it threateningly, but at once put

it back in its place.

“Did you promise to marry her?”

“I... I didn’t think of it. I never promised, because...”

Pierre interrupted him.

“Have you any letters of hers? Any letters?” he said, moving toward

Anatole.

Anatole glanced at him and immediately thrust his hand into his pocket

and drew out his pocketbook.

Pierre took the letter Anatole handed him and, pushing aside a table

that stood in his way, threw himself on the sofa.

“I shan’t be violent, don’t be afraid!” said Pierre in answer to a

frightened gesture of Anatole’s. “First, the letters,” said he, as if

repeating a lesson to himself. “Secondly,” he continued after a short

pause, again rising and again pacing the room, “tomorrow you must get

out of Moscow.”

“But how can I?...”

“Thirdly,” Pierre continued without listening to him, “you must never

breathe a word of what has passed between you and Countess Rostóva.

I know I can’t prevent your doing so, but if you have a spark of

conscience...” Pierre paced the room several times in silence.

Anatole sat at a table frowning and biting his lips.

“After all, you must understand that besides your pleasure there is such

a thing as other people’s happiness and peace, and that you are ruining

a whole life for the sake of amusing yourself! Amuse yourself with women

like my wife—with them you are within your rights, for they know what

you want of them. They are armed against you by the same experience

of debauchery; but to promise a maid to marry her... to deceive, to

kidnap.... Don’t you understand that it is as mean as beating an old man

or a child?...”

Pierre paused and looked at Anatole no longer with an angry but with a

questioning look.

“I don’t know about that, eh?” said Anatole, growing more confident as

Pierre mastered his wrath. “I don’t know that and don’t want to,” he

said, not looking at Pierre and with a slight tremor of his lower jaw,

“but you have used such words to me—‘mean’ and so on—which as a man of

honor I can’t allow anyone to use.”

Pierre glanced at him with amazement, unable to understand what he

wanted.

“Though it was tête-à-tête,” Anatole continued, “still I can’t...”

“Is it satisfaction you want?” said Pierre ironically.

“You could at least take back your words. What? If you want me to do as

you wish, eh?”

“I take them back, I take them back!” said Pierre, “and I ask you to

forgive me.” Pierre involuntarily glanced at the loose button. “And if

you require money for your journey...”

Anatole smiled. The expression of that base and cringing smile, which

Pierre knew so well in his wife, revolted him.

“Oh, vile and heartless brood!” he exclaimed, and left the room.

Next day Anatole left for Petersburg.