As always happens when traveling, Princess Márya thought only of the journey itself, forgetting its object. But as she approached Yaroslávl the thought of what might await her there—not after many days, but that very evening—again presented itself to her and her agitation increased to its utmost limit.
The courier who had been sent on in advance to find out where the Rostóvs were staying in Yaroslávl, and in what condition Prince Andréy was, when he met the big coach just entering the town gates was appalled by the terrible pallor of the princess’ face that looked out at him from the window.
“I have found out everything, your excellency: the Rostóvs are staying at the merchant Brónnikov’s house, in the Square not far from here, right above the Vólga,” said the courier.
Princess Márya looked at him with frightened inquiry, not understanding why he did not reply to what she chiefly wanted to know: how was her brother? Mademoiselle Bourienne put that question for her.
“How is the prince?” she asked.
“His excellency is staying in the same house with them.”
“Then he is alive,” thought Princess Márya, and asked in a low voice: “How is he?”
“The servants say he is still the same.”
What “still the same” might mean Princess Márya did not ask, but with an unnoticed glance at little seven-year-old Nikolúshka, who was sitting in front of her looking with pleasure at the town, she bowed her head and did not raise it again till the heavy coach, rumbling, shaking and swaying, came to a stop. The carriage steps clattered as they were let down.