A sense of pity he had never before known overflowed Pierre’s heart.

“I will tell him, I will tell him everything once more,” said Pierre. “But⁠ ⁠… I should like to know one thing.⁠ ⁠…”

“Know what?” Natásha’s eyes asked.

“I should like to know, did you love⁠ ⁠…” Pierre did not know how to refer to Anatole and flushed at the thought of him⁠—“did you love that bad man?”

“Don’t call him bad!” said Natásha. “But I don’t know, don’t know at all.⁠ ⁠…”

She began to cry and a still greater sense of pity, tenderness, and love welled up in Pierre. He felt the tears trickle under his spectacles and hoped they would not be noticed.

“We won’t speak of it any more, my dear,” said Pierre, and his gentle, cordial tone suddenly seemed very strange to Natásha.