“Well, it doesn’t matter,” said Prince Andréy. “Tell Countess Rostóva that she was and is perfectly free and that I wish her all that is good.”
Pierre took the packet. Prince Andréy, as if trying to remember whether he had something more to say, or waiting to see if Pierre would say anything, looked fixedly at him.
“I say, do you remember our discussion in Petersburg?” asked Pierre, “about …”
“Yes,” returned Prince Andréy hastily. “I said that a fallen woman should be forgiven, but I didn’t say I could forgive her. I can’t.”
“But can this be compared … ?” said Pierre.
Prince Andréy interrupted him and cried sharply: “Yes, ask her hand again, be magnanimous, and so on? … Yes, that would be very noble, but I am unable to follow in that gentleman’s footsteps. If you wish to be my friend never speak to me of that … of all that! Well, goodbye. So you’ll give her the packet?”
Pierre left the room and went to the old prince and Princess Márya.
The old man seemed livelier than usual. Princess Márya was the same as always, but beneath her sympathy for her brother, Pierre noticed her satisfaction that the engagement had been broken off. Looking at them Pierre realized what contempt and animosity they all felt for the Rostóvs, and that it was impossible in their presence even to mention the name of her who could give up Prince Andréy for anyone else.
At dinner the talk turned on the war, the approach of which was becoming evident. Prince Andréy talked incessantly, arguing now with his father, now with the Swiss tutor Dessalles, and showing an unnatural animation, the cause of which Pierre so well understood.