The old coachman Efim, the only one whom the countess could trust to drive her, sat perched up on the box, and did not even look round at what was passing behind him. His thirty years’ experience had taught him that it would be some time yet before they would say, “Now, in God’s name, start！” and that when they had said it, they would stop him at least twice again to send back for things that had been forgotten; and after that he would have to pull up once more for the countess herself to put her head out of window and beg him, for Christ’s sake, to drive carefully downhill. He knew this, and therefore awaited what was to come with more patience than his horses, especially the left one, the chestnut Falcon, who was continually pawing the ground and champing at the bit. At last all were seated; the carriage steps were pulled up, and the door slammed, and the forgotten travelling-case had been sent for and the countess had popped her head out and given the usual injunctions. Then Efim deliberately took his hat off and began crossing himself. The postillion and all the servants did the same.
“With God’s blessing！” said Efim, putting his hat on. “Off！” The postillion started his horse. The right-shaft horse began to pull, the high springs creaked, and the carriage swayed. The footman jumped up on the box while it was moving. The carriage jolted as it drove out of the yard on to the uneven pavement; the other vehicles jolted in the same way as they followed in a procession up the street. All the occupants of the carriages, the coach and the covered gig, crossed themselves on seeing the church opposite. The servants, who were staying in Moscow, walked along on both sides of the carriages to see them off.
Natasha had rarely felt such a joyful sensation as she experienced at that moment sitting in the carriage by the countess and watching, as they slowly moved by her, the walls of forsaken, agitated Moscow. Now and then she put her head out of the carriage window and looked back, and then in front of the long train of waggons full of wounded soldiers preceding them. Foremost of them all she could see Prince Andrey’s closed carriage. She did not know who was in it, and every time she took stock of the procession of waggons she looked out for that coach. She knew it would be the foremost. In Kudrino and from Nikitsky Street, from Pryesny, and from Podnovinsky several trains of vehicles, similar to the Rostovs’, came driving out, and by the time they reached Sadovoy Street the carriages and carts were two deep all along the road.
As they turned round Suharev Tower, Natasha, who was quickly and inquisitively scrutinising the crowd driving and walking by, uttered a cry of delight and surprise：
“Good Heavens！ Mamma, Sonya, look; it’s he！”
“Who？ who？”
“Look, do look！ Bezuhov,” said Natasha, putting her head out of the carriage window and staring at a tall, stout man in a coachman’s long coat, obviously a gentleman disguised, from his carriage and gait. He was passing under the arch of the Suharev Tower beside a yellow-looking, beardless, little old man in a frieze cloak.
“Only fancy！ Bezuhov in a coachman’s coat, with a queer sort of old-looking boy,” said Natasha. “Do look; do look！”
“No, it’s not he. How can you be so absurd！”
“Mamma,” cried Natasha. “On my word of honour, I assure you, it is he. Stop, stop,” she shouted to the coachman; but the coachman could not stop, because more carts and carriages were coming out of Myeshtchansky Street, and people were shouting at the Rostovs to move on, and not to keep the rest of the traffic waiting.
All the Rostovs did, however, though now at a much greater distance, see Pierre, or a man extraordinarily like him, wearing a coachman’s coat, and walking along the street with bent head and a serious face beside a little, beardless old man, who looked like a footman. This old man noticed a face poked out of the carriage window staring at them, and respectfully touching Pierre’s elbow, he said something to him, pointing towards the carriage. It was some time before Pierre understood what he was saying; he was evidently deeply absorbed in his own thoughts. At last he looked in the direction indicated, and recognising Natasha, he moved instantly towards the carriage, as though yielding to the first impulse. But after taking a dozen steps towards it, he stopped short, apparently recollecting something. Natasha’s head beamed out of the carriage window with friendly mockery.
“Pyotr Kirillitch, come here！ We recognized you, you see！ It’s a wonder！” she cried, stretching out a hand to him. “How is it？ Why are you like this？”
Pierre took her outstretched hand, and awkwardly kissed it as he ran beside the still moving carriage.
“What has happened, count？” the countess asked him, in a surprised and commiserating tone.
“Eh？ Why？ Don’t ask me,” said Pierre, and he looked up at Natasha, the charm of whose radiant, joyous eyes he felt upon him without looking at her.
“What are you doing, or are you staying in Moscow？”
Pierre was silent.
“In Moscow？” he queried. “Yes, in Moscow. Good-bye.”
“Oh, how I wish I were a man, I would stay with you. Ah, how splendid that is！” said Natasha. “Mamma, do let me stay.”
Pierre looked absently at Natasha, and was about to say something, but the countess interrupted him.
“You were at the battle, we have been told.”
“Yes, I was there,” answered Pierre. “To-morrow there will be a battle again …” he was beginning, but Natasha interposed：
“But what is the matter, count？ You are not like yourself …”
“Oh, don’t ask me, don’t ask me, I don’t know myself. To-morrow … No！ Good-bye; good-bye,” he said; “it’s an awful time！” And he left the carriage and walked away to the pavement.
For a long while Natasha’s head was still thrust out of the carriage window, and she beamed at him with a kindly and rather mocking, joyous smile.