“Sónya, will he live?” she asked. “Sónya, how happy I am, and how unhappy!⁠ ⁠… Sónya, dovey, everything is as it used to be. If only he lives! He cannot⁠ ⁠… because⁠ ⁠… because⁠ ⁠… of⁠ ⁠…” and Natásha burst into tears.

“Yes! I knew it! Thank God!” murmured Sónya. “He will live.”

Sónya was not less agitated than her friend by the latter’s fear and grief and by her own personal feelings which she shared with no one. Sobbing, she kissed and comforted Natásha. “If only he lives!” she thought. Having wept, talked, and wiped away their tears, the two friends went together to Prince Andréy’s door. Natásha opened it cautiously and glanced into the room, Sónya standing beside her at the half-open door.

Prince Andréy was lying raised high on three pillows. His pale face was calm, his eyes closed, and they could see his regular breathing.

“O, Natásha!” Sónya suddenly almost screamed, catching her companion’s arm and stepping back from the door.