“Well， my dear， I’m afraid you and your monk are wasting your powder and shot，” Prince Andrey said ironically but affectionately.
“Ah， mon ami！ I can only pray to God and trust that He will hear me. Andrey，” she said timidly after a minute’s silence， “I have a great favour to ask of you.”
“What is it， dear？”
“No； promise me you won’t refuse. It will be no trouble to you， and there is nothing beneath you in it. Only it will be a comfort to me. Promise， Andryusha，” she said， putting her hand into her reticule and holding something in it， but not showing it yet， as though what she was holding was the object of her entreaty， and before she received a promise to grant it， she could not take that something out of her reticule. She looked timidly with imploring eyes at her brother.
“Even if it were a great trouble …” answered Prince Andrey， seeming to guess what the favour was.
“You may think what you please about it. I know you are like mon père. Think what you please， but do this for my sake. Do， please. The father of my father， our grandfather， always wore it in all his wars …” She still did not take out what she was holding in her reticule. “You promise me， then？”
“Of course， what is it？”
“Andrey， I am blessing you with the holy image， and you must promise me you will never take it off.… You promise？”
“If it does not weigh a ton and won’t drag my neck off … To please you，” said Prince Andrey. The same second he noticed the pained expression that came over his sister’s face at this jest， and felt remorseful. “I am very glad， really very glad， dear，” he added.
“Against your own will He will save and will have mercy on you and turn you to Himself， because in Him alone is truth and peace，” she said in a voice shaking with emotion， and with a solemn gesture holding in both hands before her brother an old-fashioned， little， oval holy image of the Saviour with a black face in a silver setting， on a little silver chain of delicate workmanship. She crossed herself， kissed the image， and gave it to Andrey.
“Please， Andrey， for my sake.”
Rays of kindly， timid light beamed from her great eyes. Those eyes lighted up all the thin， sickly face and made it beautiful. Her brother would have taken the image， but she stopped him. Andrey understood， crossed himself， and kissed the image. His face looked at once tender （he was touched） and ironical.
“Merci， mon ami.” She kissed him on the forehead and sat down again on the sofa. Both were silent.
“So as I was telling you， Andrey， you must be kind and generous as you always used to be. Don’t judge Liza harshly，” she began； “she is so sweet， so good-natured， and her position is a very hard one just now.”
“I fancy I have said nothing to you， Masha， of my blaming my wife for anything or being dissatisfied with her. What makes you say all this to me？”
Princess Marya coloured in patches， and was mute， as though she felt guilty.
“I have said nothing to you， but you have been talked to. And that makes me sad.”
The red patches grew deeper on the forehead and neck and cheeks of Princess Marya. She would have said something， but could not utter the words. Her brother had guessed right： his wife had shed tears after dinner， had said that she had a presentiment of a bad confinement， that she was afraid of it， and had complained of her hard lot， of her father-in-law and her husband. After crying she had fallen asleep. Prince Andrey felt sorry for his sister.
“Let me tell you one thing， Masha， I can’t reproach my wife for anything， I never have and I never shall， nor can I reproach myself for anything in regard to her， and that shall always be so in whatever circumstances I may be placed. But if you want to know the truth … if you want to know if I am happy. No. Is she happy？ No. Why is it so？ I don’t know.”
As he said this， he went up to his sister， and stooping over her kissed her on the forehead. His fine eyes shone with an unaccustomed light of intelligence and goodness. But he was not looking at his sister， but towards the darkness of the open door， over her head.
“Let us go to her； I must say good-bye. Or you go alone and wake her up， and I’ll come in a moment. Petrushka！” he called to his valet， “come here and take away these things. This is to go in the seat and this on the right side.”
Princess Marya got up and moved toward the door. She stopped. “Andrey， if you had faith， you would have appealed to God， to give you the love that you do not feel， and your prayer would have been granted.”
“Yes， perhaps so，” said Prince Andrey. “Go， Masha， I’ll come immediately.”
On the way to his sister’s room， in the gallery that united one house to the other， Prince Andrey encountered Mademoiselle Bourienne smiling sweetly. It was the third time that day that with an innocent and enthusiastic smile she had thrown herself in his way in secluded passages.
“Ah， I thought you were in your own room，” she said， for some reason blushing and casting down her eyes. Prince Andrey looked sternly at her. A sudden look of wrathful exasperation came into his face. He said nothing to her， but stared at her forehead and her hair， without looking at her eyes， with such contempt that the Frenchwoman crimsoned and went away without a word. When he reached his sister’s room， the little princess was awake and her gay little voice could be heard through the open door， hurrying one word after another. She talked as though， after being long restrained， she wanted to make up for lost time， and， as always， she spoke French
“No， but imagine the old Countess Zubov， with false curls and her mouth full of false teeth as though she wanted to defy the years. Ha， ha， ha， Marie！”
Just the same phrase about Countess Zubov and just the same laugh Prince Andrey had heard five times already from his wife before outsiders. He walked softly into the room. The little princess， plump and rosy， was sitting in a low chair with her work in her hands， trotting out her Petersburg reminiscences and phrases. Prince Andrey went up， stroked her on the head， and asked if she had got over the fatigue of the journey. She answered him and went on talking.