“I don’t care for any one, I don’t love any one but him. How dare you say he’s dishonourable！ Don’t you know that I love him？” cried Natasha. “Sonya, go away; I don’t want to quarrel with you; go away, for God’s sake, go away; you see how wretched I am,” cried Natasha angrily, in a voice of repressed irritation and despair. Sonya burst into sobs and ran out of the room.
Natasha went to the table, and without a moment’s reflection wrote that answer to Princess Marya, which she had been unable to write all the morning. In her letter she told Princess Marya briefly that all misunderstandings between them were at an end, as taking advantage of the generosity of Prince Andrey, who had at parting given her full liberty, she begged her to forget everything and forgive if she had been in fault in any way, but she could not be his wife. It all seemed to her so easy, so ******, and so clear at that moment.
The Rostovs were to return to the country on Friday, but on Wednesday the count went with the intending purchaser to his estate near Moscow.
On the day the count left, Sonya and Natasha were invited to a big dinner-party at Julie Karagin’s, and Marya Dmitryevna took them. At that dinner Natasha met Anatole again, and Sonya noticed that Natasha said something to him, trying not to be overheard, and was all through the dinner more excited than before. When they got home, Natasha was the first to enter upon the conversation with Sonya that her friend was expecting.
“Well, Sonya, you said all sorts of silly things about him,” Natasha began in a meek voice, the voice in which children speak when they want to be praised for being good. “I have had it all out with him to-day.”
“Well, what did he say？ Well？ Come, what did he say？ Natasha, I’m so glad you’re not angry with me. Tell me everything, all the truth. What did he say？”
Natasha sank into thought.
“O Sonya, if you knew him as I do！ He said … He asked me what promise I had given Bolkonsky. He was so glad that I was free to refuse him.”
Sonya sighed dejectedly.
“But you haven’t refused Bolkonsky, have you？” she said.
“Oh, perhaps I have refused him！ Perhaps it’s all at an end with Bolkonsky. Why do you think so ill of me？”
“I don’t think anything, only I don’t understand this.…”
“Wait a little, Sonya, you will understand it all. You will see the sort of man he is. Don’t think ill of me, or of him.”
“I don’t think ill of any one; I like every one and am sorry for every one. But what am I to do？”
Sonya would not let herself be won over by the affectionate tone Natasha took with her. The softer and the more ingratiating Natasha’s face became, the more serious and stern became the face of Sonya.
“Natasha,” she said, “you asked me not to speak to you, and I haven’t spoken; now you have begun yourself. Natasha, I don’t trust him. Why this secrecy？”
“Again, again！” interrupted Natasha.
“Natasha, I am afraid for you.”
“What is there to be afraid of？”
“I am afraid you will be ruined,” said Sonya resolutely, herself horrified at what she was saying.
Natasha’s face expressed anger again.
“Then I will be ruined, I will; I’ll hasten to my ruin. It’s not your business. It’s not you, but I, will suffer for it. Leave me alone, leave me alone. I hate you！”
“Natasha！” Sonya appealed to her in dismay.
“I hate you, I hate you！ And you’re my enemy for ever！”
Natasha ran out of the room.
Natasha avoided Sonya and did not speak to her again. With the same expression of agitated wonder and guilt she wandered about the rooms, taking up first one occupation and then another, and throwing them aside again at once.
Hard as it was for Sonya, she kept watch over her friend and never let her out of her sight.
On the day before that fixed for the count’s return, Sonya noticed that Natasha sat all the morning at the drawing-room window, as though expecting something, and that she made a sign to an officer who passed by, whom Sonya took to be Anatole.
Sonya began watching her friend even more attentively, and she noticed that all dinner-time and in the evening Natasha was in a strange and unnatural state, unlike herself. She made irrelevant replies to questions asked her, began sentences and did not finish them, and laughed at everything.
After tea Sonya saw the maid timidly waiting for her to pass at Natasha’s door. She let her go in, and listening at the door, found out that another letter had been given her. And all at once it was clear to Sonya that Natasha had some dreadful plan for that evening. Sonya knocked at her door. Natasha would not let her in.
“She is going to run away with him！” thought Sonya. “She is capable of anything. There was something particularly piteous and determined in her face to-day. She cried as she said good-bye to uncle,” Sonya remembered. “Yes, it’s certain, she’s going to run away with him; but what am I to do？” wondered Sonya, recalling now all the signs that so clearly betokened some dreadful resolution on Natasha’s part. “The count is not here. What am I to do？ Write to Kuragin, demanding an explanation from him？ But who is to make him answer？ Write to Pierre, as Prince Andrey asked me to do in case of trouble？ … But perhaps she really has refused Bolkonsky （she sent off a letter to Princess Marya yesterday）. Uncle is not here.”
To tell Marya Dmitryevna, who had such faith in Natasha, seemed to Sonya a fearful step to take.
“But one way or another,” thought Sonya, standing in the dark corridor, “now or never the time has come for me to show that I am mindful of all the benefits I have received from their family and that I love Nikolay. No, if I have to go three nights together without sleep; I won’t leave this corridor, and I will prevent her passing by force, and not let disgrace come upon their family,” she thought.