felt something peculiar.”
“What else did he say to you? What are those verses? Read them …” said her mother, thoughtfully, referring to some verses Prince Andréy had written in Natásha’s album.
“Mamma, one need not be ashamed of his being a widower?”
“Don’t, Natásha! Pray to God. ‘Marriages are made in heaven,’ ” said her mother.
“Darling Mummy, how I love you! How happy I am!” cried Natásha, shedding tears of joy and excitement and embracing her mother.
At that very time Prince Andréy was sitting with Pierre and telling him of his love for Natásha and his firm resolve to make her his wife.
That day Countess Elèna Vasílievna had a reception at her house. The French ambassador was there, and a foreign prince of the blood who had of late become a frequent visitor of hers, and many brilliant ladies and gentlemen. Pierre, who had come downstairs, walked through the rooms and struck everyone by his preoccupied, absentminded, and morose air.