looking at her—filled him with enchantment.
“Are you remaining in Moscow, then?”
Pierre hesitated.
“In Moscow?” he said in a questioning tone. “Yes, in Moscow. Goodbye!”
“Ah, if only I were a man! I’d certainly stay with you. How splendid!” said Natásha. “Mamma, if you’ll let me, I’ll stay!”
Pierre glanced absently at Natásha and was about to say something, but the countess interrupted him.
“You were at the battle, we heard.”
“Yes, I was,” Pierre answered. “There will be another battle tomorrow …” he began, but Natásha interrupted him.
“But what is the matter with you, Count? You are not like yourself. …”
“Oh, don’t ask me, don’t ask me! I don’t know myself. Tomorrow … But no! Goodbye, goodbye!” he muttered. “It’s an awful time!” and dropping behind the carriage he stepped onto the pavement.
Natásha continued to lean out of the window