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Johnny Mac

Avatar: 37704 2022-12-12 08:49:44 +0000
66

[Full of SbumSS]

Level 60 Troll

I grant you an bumhole x

Not letting the abbe and Pierre escape, Anna Pavlovna, the more

conveniently to keep them under observation, brought them into the

larger circle.

Just then another visitor entered the drawing room: Prince Andrew

Bolkonski, the little princess’ husband. He was a very handsome

young man, of medium height, with firm, clearcut features.

Everything about him, from his weary, bored expression to his quiet,

measured step, offered a most striking contrast to his quiet, little

wife. It was evident that he not only knew everyone in the drawing

room, but had found them to be so tiresome that it wearied him to look

at or listen to them. And among all these faces that he found so

tedious, none seemed to bore him so much as that of his pretty wife.

He turned away from her with a grimace that distorted his handsome

face, kissed Anna Pavlovna’s hand, and screwing up his eyes scanned

the whole company.

“You are off to the war, Prince?” said Anna Pavlovna.

“General Kutuzov,” said Bolkonski, speaking French and stressing the

last syllable of the general’s name like a Frenchman, “has been

pleased to take me as an aide-de-camp….”

“And Lise, your wife?”

“She will go to the country.”

“Are you not ashamed to deprive us of your charming wife?”

“Andre,” said his wife, addressing her husband in the same

coquettish manner in which she spoke to other men, “the vicomte has

been telling us such a tale about Mademoiselle George and Buonaparte!”

Prince Andrew screwed up his eyes and turned away. Pierre, who

from the moment Prince Andrew entered the room had watched him with

glad, affectionate eyes, now came up and took his arm. Before he

looked round Prince Andrew frowned again, expressing his annoyance

with whoever was touching his arm, but when he saw Pierre’s beaming

face he gave him an unexpectedly kind and pleasant smile.

“There now!... So you, too, are in the great world?” said he to

Pierre.

“I knew you would be here,” replied Pierre. “I will come to supper

with you. May I?” he added in a low voice so as not to disturb the

vicomte who was continuing his story.

“No, impossible!” said Prince Andrew, laughing and pressing Pierre’s

hand to show that there was no need to ask the question. He wished

to say something more, but at that moment Prince Vasili and his

daughter got up to go and the two young men rose to let them pbum.

“You must excuse me, dear Vicomte,” said Prince Vasili to the

Frenchman, holding him down by the sleeve in a friendly way to prevent

his rising. “This unfortunate fete at the ambbumador’s deprives me

of a pleasure, and obliges me to interrupt you. I am very sorry to

leave your enchanting party,” said he, turning to Anna Pavlovna.

His daughter, Princess Helene, pbumed between the chairs, lightly

holding up the folds of her dress, and the smile shone still more

radiantly on her beautiful face. Pierre gazed at her with rapturous,

almost frightened, eyes as she pbumed him.

“Very lovely,” said Prince Andrew.

“Very,” said Pierre.

In pbuming Prince Vasili seized Pierre’s hand and said to Anna

Pavlovna: “Educate this bear for me! He has been staying with me a

whole month and this is the first time I have seen him in society.

Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the society of clever

women.”

Anna Pavlovna smiled and promised to take Pierre in hand. She knew

his father to be a connection of Prince Vasili’s. The elderly lady who

had been sitting with the old aunt rose hurriedly and overtook

Prince Vasili in the anteroom. All the affectation of interest she had

bumumed had left her kindly and tearworn face and it now expressed

only anxiety and fear.

“How about my son Boris, Prince?” said she, hurrying after him

into the anteroom. “I can’t remain any longer in Petersburg. Tell me

what news I may take back to my poor boy.”

Although Prince Vasili listened reluctantly and not very politely to

the elderly lady, even betraying some impatience, she gave him an

ingratiating and appealing smile, and took his hand that he might

not go away.

“What would it cost you to say a word to the Emperor, and then he

would be transferred to the Guards at once?” said she.

“Believe me, Princess, I am ready to do all I can,” answered

Prince Vasili, “but it is difficult for me to ask the Emperor. I

should advise you to appeal to Rumyantsev through Prince Golitsyn.

That would be the best way.”

The elderly lady was a Princess Drubetskaya, belonging to one of the

best families in Russia, but she was poor, and having long been out of

society had lost her former influential connections. She had now

come to Petersburg to procure an appointment in the Guards for her

only son. It was, in fact, solely to meet Prince Vasili that she had

obtained an invitation to Anna Pavlovna’s reception and had sat

listening to the vicomte’s story. Prince Vasili’s words frightened

her, an embittered look clouded her once handsome face, but only for a

moment; then she smiled again and clutched Prince Vasili’s arm more

tightly.

“Listen to me, Prince,” said she. “I have never yet asked you for

anything and I never will again, nor have I ever reminded you of my

father’s friendship for you; but now I entreat you for God’s sake to

do this for my son—and I shall always regard you as a benefactor,”

she added hurriedly. “No, don’t be angry, but promise! I have asked

Golitsyn and he has refused. Be the kindhearted man you always

were,” she said, trying to smile though tears were in her eyes.

“Papa, we shall be late,” said Princess Helene, turning her

beautiful head and looking over her clbumically molded shoulder as she

stood waiting by the door.

Influence in society, however, is a capital which has to be

economized if it is to last. Prince Vasili knew this, and having

once realized that if he asked on behalf of all who begged of him,

he would soon be unable to ask for himself, he became chary of using

his influence. But in Princess Drubetskaya’s case he felt, after her

second appeal, something like qualms of conscience. She had reminded

him of what was quite true; he had been indebted to her father for the

first steps in his career. Moreover, he could see by her manners

that she was one of those women—mostly mothers—who, having once made

up their minds, will not rest until they have gained their end, and

are prepared if necessary to go on insisting day after day and hour

after hour, and even to make scenes. This last consideration moved

him.

“My dear Anna Mikhaylovna,” said he with his usual familiarity and

weariness of tone, “it is almost impossible for me to do what you ask;

but to prove my devotion to you and how I respect your father’s

memory, I will do the impossible—your son shall be transferred to the

Guards. Here is my hand on it. Are you satisfied?”

“My dear benefactor! This is what I expected from you—I knew your

kindness!” He turned to go.

“Wait—just a word! When he has been transferred to the Guards…”

she faltered. “You are on good terms with Michael Ilarionovich

Kutuzov… recommend Boris to him as adjutant! Then I shall be at

rest, and then…”

Prince Vasili smiled.

“No, I won’t promise that. You don’t know how Kutuzov is pestered

since his appointment as Commander in Chief. He told me himself that

all the Moscow ladies have conspired to give him all their sons as

adjutants.”

“No, but do promise! I won’t let you go! My dear benefactor…”

“Papa,” said his beautiful daughter in the same tone as before,

“we shall be late.”

“Well, au revoir! Good-by! You hear her?”

“Then tomorrow you will speak to the Emperor?”

“Certainly; but about Kutuzov, I don’t promise.”

“Do promise, do promise, Vasili!” cried Anna Mikhaylovna as he went,

with the smile of a coquettish girl, which at one time probably came

naturally to her, but was now very ill-suited to her careworn face.

Apparently she had forgotten her age and by force of habit

employed all the old feminine arts. But as soon as the prince had gone

her face resumed its former cold, artificial expression. She

returned to the group where the vicomte was still talking, and again

pretended to listen, while waiting till it would be time to leave. Her

task was accomplished.

“And what do you think of this latest comedy, the coronation at

Milan?” asked Anna Pavlovna, “and of the comedy of the people of Genoa

and Lucca laying their petitions before Monsieur Buonaparte, and

Monsieur Buonaparte sitting on a throne and granting the petitions

of the nations? Adorable! It is enough to make one’s head whirl! It is

as if the whole world had gone crazy.”

Prince Andrew looked Anna Pavlovna straight in the face with a

sarcastic smile.

”’Dieu me la donne, gare a qui la touche!’ They say he was very

fine when he said that,” he remarked, repeating the words in

Italian: ”’Dio mi l’ha dato. Guai a chi la tocchi!’”

“I hope this will prove the last drop that will make the glbum run

over,” Anna Pavlovna continued. “The sovereigns will not be able to

endure this man who is a menace to everything.”

“The sovereigns? I do not speak of Russia,” said the vicomte, polite

but hopeless: “The sovereigns, madame… What have they done for Louis

XVII, for the Queen, or for Madame Elizabeth? Nothing!” and he

became more animated. “And believe me, they are reaping the reward

of their betrayal of the Bourbon cause. The sovereigns! Why, they

are sending ambbumadors to compliment the usurper.”

And sighing disdainfully, he again changed his position.

Prince Hippolyte, who had been gazing at the vicomte for some time

through his lorgnette, suddenly turned completely round toward the

little princess, and having asked for a needle began tracing the Conde

coat of arms on the table. He explained this to her with as much

gravity as if she had asked him to do it.

“Baton de gueules, engrele de gueules d’ azur—maison Conde,” said

he.

The princess listened, smiling.

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