Pierre sniffed as he looked at her, but did not speak. Till then he had reproached her in his heart and tried to despise her, but he now felt so sorry for her that there was no room in his soul for reproach.
“He is here now: tell him … to for … forgive me!” She stopped and breathed still more quickly, but did not shed tears.
“Yes … I will tell him,” answered Pierre; “but …”
He did not know what to say.
Natásha was evidently dismayed at the thought of what he might think she had meant.
“No, I know all is over,” she said hurriedly. “No, that can never be. I’m only tormented by the wrong I have done him. Tell him only that I beg him to forgive, forgive, forgive me for everything. …”
She trembled all over and sat down on a chair.
A sense of pity he had never before known overflowed Pierre’s heart.
“I will tell him, I will tell him everything once more,” said Pierre. “But … I should like to know one thing. …”
“Know what?” Natásha’s eyes asked.
“I should like to know, did you love …” Pierre did not know how to refer to Anatole and flushed at the thought of him—“did you love that bad man?”
“Don’t call him bad!” said Natásha. “But I don’t know, don’t know at all. …”
She began to cry and a still greater sense of pity, tenderness, and love welled up in Pierre. He felt the tears trickle under his spectacles and hoped they would not be noticed.