The housekeeper, the old nurse, the cooks, coachmen, maids, footmen, postilions, and scullions stood at the gate, staring at the wounded.

Natásha, throwing a clean pocket handkerchief over her hair and holding an end of it in each hand, went out into the street.

The former housekeeper, old Mávra Kuzmínichna, had stepped out of the crowd by the gate, gone up to a cart with a hood constructed of bast mats, and was speaking to a pale young officer who lay inside. Natásha moved a few steps forward and stopped shyly, still holding her handkerchief, and listened to what the housekeeper was saying.

“Then you have nobody in Moscow?” she was saying. “You would be more comfortable somewhere in a house⁠ ⁠… in ours, for instance⁠ ⁠… the family are leaving.”

“I don’t know if it would be allowed,” replied the officer in a weak voice. “Here is our commanding officer⁠ ⁠… ask him,” and he pointed to a stout major who was walking back along the street past the row of carts.