Natasha.

"It's not true, not true!" cried Pierre. "I am not to blame for being
alive and wishing to live--nor you either."

Suddenly Natasha bent her head, covered her face with her hands, and
began to cry.

"What is it, Natasha?" said Princess Mary.

"Nothing, nothing." She smiled at Pierre through her tears. "Good night!
It is time for bed."

Pierre rose and took his leave.

Princess Mary and Natasha met as usual in the bedroom. They talked of
what Pierre had told them. Princess Mary did not express her opinion of
Pierre nor did Natasha speak of him.

"Well, good night, Mary!" said Natasha. "Do you know, I am often afraid
that by not speaking of him" (she meant Prince Andrew) "for fear of not
doing justice to our feelings, we forget him."

Princess Mary sighed deeply and thereby acknowledged the justice of
Natasha's remark, but she did not express agreement in words.

"Is it possible to forget?" said she.

"It did me so much good to tell all about it today. It was hard and
painful, but good, very good!" said Natasha. "I am sure he really loved
him. That is why I told him... Was it all right?" she added, suddenly
blushing.

"To tell Pierre? Oh, yes. What a splendid man he is!" said Princess
Mary.

"Do you know, Mary..." Natasha suddenly said with a mischievous smile
such as Princess Mary had not seen on her face for a long time, "he has
somehow grown so clean, smooth, and fresh--as if he had just come out of
a Russian bath; do you understand? Out of a moral bath. Isn't it true?"

"Yes," replied Princess Mary. "He has greatly improved."

"With a short coat and his hair cropped; just as if, well, just as if he
had come straight from the bath... Papa used to..."

"I understand why he" (Prince Andrew) "liked no one so much as him,"
said Princess Mary.

"Yes, and yet he is quite different. They say men are friends when
they are quite different. That must be true. Really he is quite unlike
him--in everything."

"Yes, but he's wonderful."

"Well, good night," said Natasha.

And the same mischievous smile lingered for a long time on her face as
if it had been forgotten there.

CHAPTER XVIII

It was a long time before Pierre could fall asleep that night. He paced
up and down his room, now turning his thoughts on a difficult problem
and frowning, now suddenly shrugging his shoulders and wincing, and now
smiling happily.

He was thinking of Prince Andrew, of Natasha, and of their love, a