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"
Be
quite
easy
,
"
he
continued
playfully
,
as
he
adroitly
took
the
gold
coin
in
his
palm
.
"
She
will
soon
be
singing
and
frolicking
about
.
The
last
medicine
has
done
her
a
very
great
deal
of
good
.
She
has
freshened
up
very
much
.
"
The
countess
,
with
a
cheerful
expression
on
her
face
,
looked
down
at
her
nails
and
spat
a
little
for
luck
as
she
returned
to
the
drawing
room
.
At
the
beginning
of
July
more
and
more
disquieting
reports
about
the
war
began
to
spread
in
Moscow
;
people
spoke
of
an
appeal
by
the
Emperor
to
the
people
,
and
of
his
coming
himself
from
the
army
to
Moscow
.
And
as
up
to
the
eleventh
of
July
no
manifesto
or
appeal
had
been
received
,
exaggerated
reports
became
current
about
them
and
about
the
position
of
Russia
.
It
was
said
that
the
Emperor
was
leaving
the
army
because
it
was
in
danger
,
it
was
said
that
Smolénsk
had
surrendered
,
that
Napoleon
had
an
army
of
a
million
and
only
a
miracle
could
save
Russia
.
On
the
eleventh
of
July
,
which
was
Saturday
,
the
manifesto
was
received
but
was
not
yet
in
print
,
and
Pierre
,
who
was
at
the
Rostóvs
'
,
promised
to
come
to
dinner
next
day
,
Sunday
,
and
bring
a
copy
of
the
manifesto
and
appeal
,
which
he
would
obtain
from
Count
Rostopchín
.
That
Sunday
,
the
Rostóvs
went
to
Mass
at
the
Razumóvskis
'
private
chapel
as
usual
.
It
was
a
hot
July
day
.
Even
at
ten
o'clock
,
when
the
Rostóvs
got
out
of
their
carriage
at
the
chapel
,
the
sultry
air
,
the
shouts
of
hawkers
,
the
light
and
gay
summer
clothes
of
the
crowd
,
the
dusty
leaves
of
the
trees
on
the
boulevard
,
the
sounds
of
the
band
and
the
white
trousers
of
a
battalion
marching
to
parade
,
the
rattling
of
wheels
on
the
cobblestones
,
and
the
brilliant
,
hot
sunshine
were
all
full
of
that
summer
languor
,
that
content
and
discontent
with
the
present
,
which
is
most
strongly
felt
on
a
bright
,
hot
day
in
town
.
All
the
Moscow
notabilities
,
all
the
Rostóvs
'
acquaintances
,
were
at
the
Razumóvskis
'
chapel
,
for
,
as
if
expecting
something
to
happen
,
many
wealthy
families
who
usually
left
town
for
their
country
estates
had
not
gone
away
that
summer
.
As
Natásha
,
at
her
mother
's
side
,
passed
through
the
crowd
behind
a
liveried
footman
who
cleared
the
way
for
them
,
she
heard
a
young
man
speaking
about
her
in
too
loud
a
whisper
.
"
That
's
Rostóva
,
the
one
who
...
"
"
She
's
much
thinner
,
but
all
the
same
she
's
pretty
!
"
She
heard
,
or
thought
she
heard
,
the
names
of
Kurágin
and
Bolkónski
.
But
she
was
always
imagining
that
.
It
always
seemed
to
her
that
everyone
who
looked
at
her
was
thinking
only
of
what
had
happened
to
her
.
With
a
sinking
heart
,
wretched
as
she
always
was
now
when
she
found
herself
in
a
crowd
,
Natásha
in
her
lilac
silk
dress
trimmed
with
black
lace
walked
--
as
women
can
walk
--
with
the
more
repose
and
stateliness
the
greater
the
pain
and
shame
in
her
soul
.
She
knew
for
certain
that
she
was
pretty
,
but
this
no
longer
gave
her
satisfaction
as
it
used
to
.
On
the
contrary
it
tormented
her
more
than
anything
else
of
late
,
and
particularly
so
on
this
bright
,
hot
summer
day
in
town
.
"
It
's
Sunday
again
--
another
week
past
,
"
she
thought
,
recalling
that
she
had
been
here
the
Sunday
before
,
"
and
always
the
same
life
that
is
no
life
,
and
the
same
surroundings
in
which
it
used
to
be
so
easy
to
live
.
I
'm
pretty
,
I
'm
young
,
and
I
know
that
now
I
am
good
.
I
used
to
be
bad
,
but
now
I
know
I
am
good
,
"
she
thought
,
"
but
yet
my
best
years
are
slipping
by
and
are
no
good
to
anyone
.
"
She
stood
by
her
mother
's
side
and
exchanged
nods
with
acquaintances
near
her
.
From
habit
she
scrutinized
the
ladies
'
dresses
,
condemned
the
bearing
of
a
lady
standing
close
by
who
was
not
crossing
herself
properly
but
in
a
cramped
manner
,
and
again
she
thought
with
vexation
that
she
was
herself
being
judged
and
was
judging
others
,
and
suddenly
,
at
the
sound
of
the
service
,
she
felt
horrified
at
her
own
vileness
,
horrified
that
the
former
purity
of
her
soul
was
again
lost
to
her
.
