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repeated, and pondered, evidently sincerely trying to imagine Karataevs opinion on the subject. "He would not have understood... yet perhaps he would." "I love you awfully!" Natasha suddenly said. "Awfully, awfully!" "No, he would not have approved," said Pierre, after reflection. "What he would have approved of is our family life. He was always so anxious to find seemliness, happiness, and peace in everything, and I should have been proud to let him see us. There now--you talk of my absence, but you wouldnt believe what a special feeling I have for you after a separation...." "Yes, I should think..." Natasha began. "No, its not that. I never leave off loving you. And one couldnt love more, but this is something special.... Yes, of course-" he did not finish because their eyes meeting said the rest. "What nonsense it is," Natasha suddenly exclaimed, "about honeymoons, and that the greatest happiness is at first! On the contrary, now is the best of all. If only you did not go away! Do you remember how we quarreled? And it was always my fault. Always mine. And what we quarreled about--I dont even remember!" "Always about the same thing," said Pierre with a smile. "Jealo..." "Dont say it! I cant bear it!" Natasha cried, and her eyes glittered coldly and vindictively. "Did you see her?" she added, after a pause. "No, and if I had I shouldnt have recognized her." They were silent for a while. "Oh, do you know? While you were talking in the study I was looking at you," Natasha began, evidently anxious to disperse the cloud that had come over them. "You are as like him as two peas--like the boy." (She meant her little son.) "Oh, its time to go to him.... The milks come.... But Im sorry to leave you." They were silent for a few seconds. Then suddenly turning to one another at the same time they both began to speak. Pierre began with self-satisfaction and enthusiasm, Natasha with a quiet, happy smile. Having interrupted one another they both stopped to let the other continue. "No. What did you say? Go on, go on." "No, you go on, I was talking nonsense," said Natasha. Pierre finished what he had begun. It was the sequel to his complacent reflections on his success in Petersburg. At that moment it seemed to him that he was chosen to give a new direction to the whole of Russian society and to the whole world. "I only wished to say that ideas that have great results are always simple ones. My whole idea is that if vicious people are united and constitute a power, then honest folk must do the same. Now thats simple enough." "Yes." "And what were you going to say?" "I? Only nonsense." "But all the same?" "Oh nothing, only a trifle," said Natasha, smilingly still more brightly. "I only wanted to tell you about Petya: today nurse was coming to take him from me, and he laughed, shut his eyes, and clung to me. Im sure he thought he was hiding. Awfully sweet! There, now hes crying. Well, good-by!" and she left the room. Meanwhile downstairs in young Nicholas Bolkonskis bedroom a little lamp was burning as usual. (The boy was afraid of the dark and they could not cure him of it.) Dessalles slept propped up on four pillows and his Roman nose emitted sounds of rhythmic snoring. Little Nicholas, who had just waked up in a cold perspiration, sat up in bed and gazed before him with wide-open eyes. He had awaked from a terrible dream. He had dreamed that he and Uncle Pierre, wearing helmets such as were depicted in his Plutarch, were leading a huge army. The army was made up of white slanting lines that filled the air like the cobwebs that float about in autumn and which Dessalles called les fils de la Vierge. In front was Glory, which was similar to those threads but rather thicker. He and Pierre were borne along lightly and joyously, nearer and nearer to their goal. Suddenly the threads that moved them began to slacken and become entangled and it grew difficult to move. And Uncle Nicholas stood before them in a stern and threatening attitude. "Have you done this?" he said, pointing to some broken sealing wax and pens. "I loved you, but I have orders from Arakcheev and will kill the first of you who moves forward." Little Nicholas turned to look at Pierre but Pierre was no longer there. In his place was his father--Prince Andrew--and his father had neither shape nor form, but he existed, and

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