“My dear Anna Mikháylovna,” said he with his usual familiarity and weariness of tone, “it is almost impossible for me to do what you ask; but to prove my devotion to you and how I respect your father’s memory, I will do the impossible⁠—your son shall be transferred to the Guards. Here is my hand on it. Are you satisfied?”

“My dear benefactor! This is what I expected from you⁠—I knew your kindness!” He turned to go.

“Wait⁠—just a word! When he has been transferred to the Guards⁠ ⁠…” she faltered. “You are on good terms with Mikháil Ilariónovich Kutúzov⁠ ⁠… recommend Borís to him as adjutant! Then I shall be at rest, and then⁠ ⁠…”

Prince Vasíli smiled.

“No, I won’t promise that. You don’t know how Kutúzov is pestered since his appointment as Commander in Chief. He told me himself that all the Moscow ladies have conspired to give him all their sons as adjutants.”

“No, but do promise! I won’t let you go! My dear benefactor⁠ ⁠…”