When Nikoláy and his wife came to look for Pierre he was in the nursery holding his baby son, who was again awake, on his huge right palm and dandling him. A blissful bright smile was fixed on the baby’s broad face with its toothless open mouth. The storm was long since over and there was bright, joyous sunshine on Natásha’s face as she gazed tenderly at her husband and child.

“And have you talked everything well over with Prince Fëdor?” she asked.

“Yes, capitally.”

“You see, he holds it up.” (She meant the baby’s head.) “But how he did frighten me⁠ ⁠… You’ve seen the princess? Is it true she’s in love with that⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, just fancy⁠ ⁠…”