“But you said yourself that we would sacrifice everything.”
“Pétya! Be quiet, I tell you!” cried the count, with a glance at his wife, who had turned pale and was staring fixedly at her son.
“And I tell you—Pyotr Kirílovich here will also tell you …”
“Nonsense, I tell you. Your mother’s milk has hardly dried on your lips and you want to go into the army! There, there, I tell you,” and the count moved to go out of the room, taking the papers, probably to reread them in his study before having a nap.
“Well, Pyotr Kirílovich, let’s go and have a smoke,” he said.
Pierre was agitated and undecided. Natásha’s unwontedly brilliant eyes, continually glancing at him with a more than cordial look, had reduced him to this condition.
“No, I think I’ll go home.”
“Home? Why, you meant to spend the evening with us. … You don’t often come nowadays as it is, and this girl of mine,” said the count good-naturedly, pointing to Natásha, “only brightens up when you’re here.”
“Yes, I had forgotten … I really must go home … business …” said Pierre hurriedly.
“Well, then, au revoir!” said the count, and went out of the room.
“Why are you going? Why are you upset?” asked Natásha, and she looked challengingly into Pierre’s eyes.
“Because I love you!” was what he wanted to say, but he did not say it, and only blushed till the tears came, and lowered his eyes.
“Because it is better for me to come less often … because … No, simply I have business. …”