“Well, of course, of course! Let me have some more strips of linen.”
“If he manages the business properly he will be able to pay off all his debts,” said the militia officer, speaking of Rostóv.
“A kindly old man but not up to much. And why do they stay on so long in Moscow? They meant to leave for the country long ago. Natáli is quite well again now, isn’t she?” Julie asked Pierre with a knowing smile.
“They are waiting for their younger son,” Pierre replied. “He joined Obolénski’s Cossacks and went to Bélaya Tsérkov where the regiment is being formed. But now they have had him transferred to my regiment and are expecting him every day. The count wanted to leave long ago, but the countess won’t on any account leave Moscow till her son returns.”
“I met them the day before yesterday at the Arkhárovs’. Natáli has recovered her looks and is brighter. She sang a song. How easily some people get over everything!”
“Get over what?” inquired Pierre, looking displeased.
Julie smiled.
“You know, Count, such knights as you are only found in Madame de Souza’s novels.”
“What knights? What do you mean?” demanded Pierre, blushing.
“Oh, come, my dear count! C’est la fable de tout Moscou. Je vous admire, ma parole d’honneur! ”
“Forfeit, forfeit!” cried the militia officer.
“All right, one can’t talk—how tiresome!”
“What is ‘the talk of all Moscow’?” Pierre asked angrily, rising to his feet.