ugh she had
been brought up in the most aristocratic circles.

"I'm not such a fool.... Just you try it on.... Allez-vous promener," *
she used to say. Often seeing the success she had with young and old men
and women Pierre could not understand why he did not love her.

* "You clear out of this."

"Yes, I never loved her," said he to himself; "I knew she was a depraved
woman," he repeated, "but dared not admit it to myself. And now there's
Dolokhov sitting in the snow with a forced smile and perhaps dying,
while meeting my remorse with some forced bravado!"

Pierre was one of those people who, in spite of an appearance of what
is called weak character, do not seek a confidant in their troubles. He
digested his sufferings alone.

"It is all, all her fault," he said to himself; "but what of that? Why
did I bind myself to her? Why did I say 'Je vous aime' * to her, which
was a lie, and worse than a lie? I am guilty and must endure... what?
A slur on my name? A misfortune for life? Oh, that's nonsense," he
thought. "The slur on my name and honor--that's all apart from myself."

* I love you.

"Louis XVI was executed because they said he was dishonorable and a
criminal," came into Pierre's head, "and from their point of view they
were right, as were those too who canonized him and died a martyr's
death for his sake. Then Robespierre was beheaded for being a despot.
Who is right and who is wrong? No one! But if you are alive--live:
tomorrow you'll die as I might have died an hour ago. And is it worth
tormenting oneself, when one has only a moment of life in comparison
with eternity?"

But at the moment when he imagined himself calmed by such reflections,
she suddenly came into his mind as she was at the moments when he had
most strongly expressed his insincere love for her, and he felt the
blood rush to his heart and had again to get up and move about and break
and tear whatever came to his hand. "Why did I tell her that 'Je vous
aime'?" he kept repeating to himself. And when he had said it for the
tenth time, Molibre's words: "Mais que diable alloit-il faire dans cette
galere?" occurred to him, and he began to laugh at himself.

In the night he called his valet and told him to pack up to go to
Petersburg. He could not imagine how he could speak to her now. He
resolved to go away next day and leave a letter informing her of his
intention to part from her forever.

Next morning when the valet came