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"
Whom
do
you
want
?
"
someone
inquired
.
"
To
hand
in
a
letter
,
a
petition
,
to
His
Majesty
,
"
said
Nicholas
,
with
a
tremor
in
his
voice
.
"
A
petition
?
This
way
,
to
the
officer
on
duty
"
(
he
was
shown
the
door
leading
downstairs
)
,
"
only
it
wo
n't
be
accepted
.
"
On
hearing
this
indifferent
voice
,
Rostóv
grew
frightened
at
what
he
was
doing
;
the
thought
of
meeting
the
Emperor
at
any
moment
was
so
fascinating
and
consequently
so
alarming
that
he
was
ready
to
run
away
,
but
the
official
who
had
questioned
him
opened
the
door
,
and
Rostóv
entered
.
A
short
stout
man
of
about
thirty
,
in
white
breeches
and
high
boots
and
a
batiste
shirt
that
he
had
evidently
only
just
put
on
,
standing
in
that
room
,
and
his
valet
was
buttoning
on
to
the
back
of
his
breeches
a
new
pair
of
handsome
silk-embroidered
braces
that
,
for
some
reason
,
attracted
Rostóv
's
attention
.
This
man
was
speaking
to
someone
in
the
adjoining
room
.
"
A
good
figure
and
in
her
first
bloom
,
"
he
was
saying
,
but
on
seeing
Rostóv
,
he
stopped
short
and
frowned
.
"
What
is
it
?
A
petition
?
"
"
What
is
it
?
"
asked
the
person
in
the
other
room
.
"
Another
petitioner
,
"
answered
the
man
with
the
braces
.
"
Tell
him
to
come
later
.
He
'll
be
coming
out
directly
,
we
must
go
.
"
