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livelier and livelier. The other couples could not attract a moments attention to their own evolutions and did not even try to do so. All were watching the count and Marya Dmitrievna. Natasha kept pulling everyone by sleeve or dress, urging them to "look at Papa!" though as it was they never took their eyes off the couple. In the intervals of the dance the count, breathing deeply, waved and shouted to the musicians to play faster. Faster, faster, and faster; lightly, more lightly, and yet more lightly whirled the count, flying round Marya Dmitrievna, now on his toes, now on his heels; until, turning his partner round to her seat, he executed the final pas, raising his soft foot backwards, bowing his perspiring head, smiling and making a wide sweep with his arm, amid a thunder of applause and laughter led by Natasha. Both partners stood still, breathing heavily and wiping their faces with their cambric handkerchiefs. "Thats how we used to dance in our time, ma chere," said the count. "That was a Daniel Cooper!" exclaimed Marya Dmitrievna, tucking up her sleeves and puffing heavily. CHAPTER XXI While in the Rostovs ballroom the sixth anglaise was being danced, to a tune in which the weary musicians blundered, and while tired footmen and cooks were getting the supper, Count Bezukhov had a sixth stroke. The doctors pronounced recovery impossible. After a mute confession, communion was administered to the dying man, preparations made for the sacrament of unction, and in his house there was the bustle and thrill of suspense usual at such moments. Outside the house, beyond the gates, a group of undertakers, who hid whenever a carriage drove up, waited in expectation of an important order for an expensive funeral. The Military Governor of Moscow, who had been assiduous in sending aides-de-camp to inquire after the counts health, came himself that evening to bid a last farewell to the celebrated grandee of Catherines court, Count Bezukhov. The magnificent reception room was crowded. Everyone stood up respectfully when the Military Governor, having stayed about half an hour alone with the dying man, passed out, slightly acknowledging their bows and trying to escape as quickly as possible from the glances fixed on him by the doctors, clergy, and relatives of the family. Prince Vasili, who had grown thinner and paler during the last few days, escorted him to the door, repeating something to him several times in low tones. When the Military Governor had gone, Prince Vasili sat down all alone on a chair in the ballroom, crossing one leg high over the other, leaning his elbow on his knee and covering his face with his hand. After sitting so for a while he rose, and, looking about him with frightened eyes, went with unusually hurried steps down the long corridor leading to the back of the house, to the room of the eldest princess. Those who were in the dimly lit reception room spoke in nervous whispers, and, whenever anyone went into or came from the dying mans room, grew silent and gazed with eyes full of curiosity or expectancy at his door, which creaked slightly when opened. "The limits of human life... are fixed and may not be oerpassed," said an old priest to a lady who had taken a seat beside him and was listening naively to his words. "I wonder, is it not too late to administer unction?" asked the lady, adding the priests clerical title, as if she had no opinion of her own on the subject. "Ah, madam, it is a great sacrament," replied the priest, passing his hand over the thin grizzled strands of hair combed back across his bald head. "Who was that? The Military Governor himself?" was being asked at the other side of the room. "How young-looking he is!" "Yes, and he is over sixty. I hear the count no longer recognizes anyone. They wished to administer the sacrament of unction." "I knew someone who received that sacrament seven times." The second princess had just come from the sickroom with her eyes red from weeping and sat down beside Dr. Lorrain, who was sitting in a graceful pose under a portrait of Catherine, leaning his elbow on a table. "Beautiful," said the doctor in answer to a remark about the weather. "The weather is beautiful, Princess; and besides, in Moscow one feels as if one were in the country." "Yes, indeed," replied the princess with a sigh. "So he may have something to drink?" Lorrain considered. "Has he taken his medicine?" "Yes." The doctor glanced at his watch. "Take a glass of boiled water and put a pinch

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