with that singer” (he meant Natásha’s Italian singing master), “that’s why she’s ashamed!”
“Pétya, you’re stupid!” said Natásha.
“Not more stupid than you, madam,” said the nine-year-old Pétya, with the air of an old brigadier.
The countess had been prepared by Anna Mikháylovna’s hints at dinner. On retiring to her own room, she sat in an armchair, her eyes fixed on a miniature portrait of her son on the lid of a snuffbox, while the tears kept coming into her eyes. Anna Mikháylovna, with the letter, came on tiptoe to the countess’ door and paused.
“Don’t come in,” she said to the old count who was following her. “Come later.” And she went in, closing the door behind her.
The count put his ear to the keyhole and listened.
At first he heard the sound of indifferent voices, then Anna Mikháylovna’s voice alone in