ThatsameeveningPierrewenttotheRostovs' , thecountattheclub, andPierre, aftergivingtheletterstoSonya, .
"NatashainsistsonseeingCountPeterKirilovich," saidshe.
"Buthow? Arewetotakehimuptoher? Theroomtherehasnotbeentidiedup."
"No, shehasdressedandgoneintothedrawingroom," saidSonya.
MaryaDmitrievnaonlyshruggedhershoulders.
"Whenwillhermothercome? Shehasworriedmetodeath! Nowmind, don'ttellhereverything!" saidshetoPierre."Onehasn'tthehearttoscoldher, sheissomuchtobepitied, somuchtobepitied."
Natashawasstandinginthemiddleofthedrawingroom, emaciated, withapalesetface, , evidentlyundecidedwhethertogotomeethimortowaittillhecameup.
; butshe, steppinguptohim, stopped, breathingheavily, herarmshanginglifelesslyjustintheposesheusedtostandinwhenshewenttothemiddleoftheballroomtosing, butwithquiteadifferentexpressionofface.
"PeterKirilovich," shebeganrapidly, "PrinceBolkonskiwasyourfriend—isyourfriend," shecorrectedherself.(Itseemedtoherthateverythingthathadoncebeenmustnowbedifferent.) "Hetoldmeoncetoapplytoyou..."
Pierresniffedashelookedather, , buthenowfeltsosorryforherthattherewasnoroominhissoulforreproach.
"Heisherenow: tellhim...tofor...forgiveme!" Shestoppedandbreathedstillmorequickly, butdidnotshedtears.
"Yes...Iwilltellhim," answeredPierre; "but..."
Hedidnotknowwhattosay.
Natashawasevidentlydismayedatthethoughtofwhathemightthinkshehadmeant.
"No, Iknowallisover," shesaidhurriedly."No, thatcanneverbe.I', forgive, forgivemeforeverything...."
Shetrembledalloverandsatdownonachair.
