“I knew you’d give permission … so I’ll tell them,” and, having kissed her mother, Natásha got up and went to the door.
In the hall she met her father, who had returned with bad news.
“We’ve stayed too long!” said the count with involuntary vexation. “The Club is closed and the police are leaving.”
“Papa, is it all right—I’ve invited some of the wounded into the house?” said Natásha.
“Of course it is,” he answered absently. “That’s not the point. I beg you not to indulge in trifles now, but to help to pack, and tomorrow we must go, go, go! …”
And the count gave a similar order to the majordomo and the servants.
At dinner Pétya having returned home told them the news he had heard. He said the people had been getting arms in the Krémlin, and that though Rostopchín’s broadsheet had said that he would sound a call two or three days in advance, the order had certainly already been given for everyone to