Chapter 17

           

           Beforetwoo’clockintheafternoontheRostóvs’fourcarriages,packedfullandwiththehorsesharnessed,stoodatthefrontdoor.Onebyonethecartswiththewoundedhadmovedoutoftheyard.

           ThecalècheinwhichPrinceAndrewwasbeingtakenattractedSónya’sattentionasitpassedthefrontporch.Withthehelpofamaidshewasarrangingaseatforthecountessinthehugehighcoachthatstoodattheentrance.

           “Whosecalècheisthat?”sheinquired,leaningoutofthecarriagewindow.

           “Why,didn’tyouknow,Miss?”repliedthemaid.“Thewoundedprince:hespentthenightinourhouseandisgoingwithus.”

           “Butwhoisit?What’shisname?”

           “It’sourintendedthatwas—PrinceBolkónskihimself!Theysayheisdying,”repliedthemaidwithasigh.

           Sónyajumpedoutofthecoachandrantothecountess.Thecountess,tiredoutandalreadydressedinshawlandbonnetforherjourney,waspacingupanddownthedrawingroom,waitingforthehouseholdtoassemblefortheusualsilentprayerwithcloseddoorsbeforestarting.Natáshawasnotintheroom.

           “Mamma,”saidSónya,“PrinceAndrewishere,mortallywounded.Heisgoingwithus.”

           Thecountessopenedhereyesindismayand,seizingSónya’sarm,glancedaround.

           “Natásha?”shemurmured.

           Atthatmomentthisnewshadonlyonesignificanceforbothofthem.TheyknewtheirNatásha,andalarmastowhatwouldhappenifsheheardthisnewsstifledallsympathyforthemantheybothliked.

           “Natáshadoesnotknowyet,butheisgoingwithus,”saidSónya.

           “Yousayheisdying?”

           Sónyanodded.

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