“Whose calèche is that?” she inquired, leaning out of the carriage window.
“Why, didn’t you know, Miss?” replied the maid. “The wounded prince: he spent the night in our house and is going with us.”
“But who is it? What’s his name?”
“It’s our intended that was—Prince Bolkónski himself! They say he is dying,” replied the maid with a sigh.
Sónya jumped out of the coach and ran to the countess. The countess, tired out and already dressed in shawl and bonnet for her journey, was pacing up and down the drawing room, waiting for the household to assemble for the usual silent prayer with closed doors before starting. Natásha was not in the room.
“Mamma,” said Sónya, “Prince Andrew is here, mortally wounded. He is going with us.”
The countess opened her eyes in dismay and, seizing Sónya’s arm, glanced around.
“Natásha?” she murmured.
At that moment this news had only one significance for both of them. They knew their Natásha, and alarm as to what would happen if she heard this news stifled all sympathy for the man they both liked.
“Natásha does not know yet, but he is going with us,” said Sónya.