But Natásha looked at her as if not understanding what was said to her and again fixed her eyes on the corner of the stove. She had been in this condition of stupor since the morning, when Sónya, to the surprise and annoyance of the countess, had for some unaccountable reason found it necessary to tell Natásha of Prince Andréy’s wound and of his being with their party. The countess had seldom been so angry with anyone as she was with Sónya. Sónya had cried and begged to be forgiven and now, as if trying to atone for her fault, paid unceasing attention to her cousin.
“Look, Natásha, how dreadfully it is burning!” said she.
“What’s burning?” asked Natásha. “Oh, yes, Moscow.”
And as if in order not to offend Sónya and to get rid of her, she turned her face to the window, looked out in such a way that it was evident that she could not see anything, and again settled down in her former attitude.
“But you didn’t see it!”
“Yes, really I did,” Natásha replied in a voice that pleaded to be left in peace.
Both the countess and Sónya understood that, naturally, neither Moscow nor the burning of Moscow nor anything else could seem of importance to Natásha.
The count returned and lay down behind the partition. The countess went up to her daughter and touched her head with the back of her hand as she was wont to do when Natásha was ill, then touched her forehead with her lips as if to feel whether she was feverish, and finally kissed her.
“You are cold. You are trembling all over. You’d better lie down,” said the countess.
“Lie down? All right, I will. I’ll lie down at once,” said Natásha.