“Then you have nobody in Moscow?” she was saying. “You would be more comfortable somewhere in a house... in ours, for instance... the family are leaving.”
“I don’t know if it would be allowed,” replied the officer in a weak voice. “Here is our commanding officer... ask him,” and he pointed to a stout major who was walking back along the street past the row of carts.
Natásha glanced with frightened eyes at the face of the wounded officer and at once went to meet the major.
“May the wounded men stay in our house?” she asked.
The major raised his hand to his cap with a smile.
“Which one do you want, Ma’am’selle?” said he, screwing up his eyes and smiling.
Natásha quietly repeated her question, and her face and whole manner were so serious, though she was still holding the ends of her handkerchief, that the major ceased smiling and after some reflection—as if considering in how far the thing was possible—replied in the affirmative.
“Oh yes, why not? They may,” he said.
With a slight inclination of her head, Natásha stepped back quickly to Mávra Kuzmínichna, who stood talking compassionately to the officer.
“They may. He says they may!” whispered Natásha.