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Though he did not see why it was necessary for him to go to the count at all, still less why he had to go by the back stairs, yet judging by Anna Mikhaylovna's air of assurance and haste, Pierre concluded that it was all absolutely necessary. Halfway up the stairs they were almost knocked over by some men who, carrying pails, came running downstairs, their boots clattering.
All became silent and turned to look at the pale tear-worn Anna Mikhaylovna as she entered, and at the big stout figure of Pierre who, hanging his head, meekly followed her. Anna Mikhaylovna's face expressed a consciousness that the decisive moment had arrived.
Meanwhile the younger generation: Boris, the officer, Anna Mikhaylovna's son; Nicholas, the undergraduate, the count's eldest son; Sonya, the count's fifteen-year-old niece, and little Petya, his youngest boy, had all settled down in the drawing room and were obviously trying to restrain within the bounds of decorum the excitement and mirth that shone in all their faces.
"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 Mikhaylovna's voice alone in a long speech, then a cry, then silence, then both voices together with glad intonations, and then footsteps. Anna Mikhaylovna opened the door.
I'm sure of it!" exclaimed Natasha, reading confirmation in Anna Mikhaylovna's face. "But for God's sake, be careful, you know how it may affect your mamma." "I will, I will, only tell me! You won't? Then I will go and tell at once." Anna Mikhaylovna, in a few words, told her the contents of the letter, on condition that she should tell no one.
The countess had been prepared by Anna Mikhaylovna'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 Mikhaylovna, 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.
In the letter from his parents was enclosed a letter of recommendation to Bagration which the old countess at Anna Mikhaylovna's advice had obtained through an acquaintance and sent to her son, asking him to take it to its destination and make use of it. "What nonsense! Much I need it!" said Rostov, throwing the letter under the table. "Why have you thrown that away?" asked Boris.
"But I'll go to Bezukhov's myself. Pierre has arrived, and now we shall get anything we want from his hothouses. I have to see him in any case. He has forwarded me a letter from Boris. Thank God, Boris is now on the staff." The count was delighted at Anna Mikhaylovna's taking upon herself one of his commissions and ordered the small closed carriage for her. "Tell Bezukhov to come.
"Prince Hippolyte Kuragin, M. Krug, the charge d'affaires from Copenhagen a profound intellect," and simply, "Mr. Shitov a man of great merit" this of the man usually so described. Thanks to Anna Mikhaylovna's efforts, his own tastes, and the peculiarities of his reserved nature, Boris had managed during his service to place himself very advantageously.
The chanting of the service ceased, and the voice of the priest was heard respectfully congratulating the dying man on having received the sacrament. The dying man lay as lifeless and immovable as before. Around him everyone began to stir: steps were audible and whispers, among which Anna Mikhaylovna's was the most distinct.
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