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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

“You know,” said the princess in the same tone of voice and still in

French, turning to a general, “my husband is deserting me? He is going

to get himself killed. Tell me what this wretched war is for?” she

added, addressing Prince Vasili, and without waiting for an answer she

turned to speak to his daughter, the beautiful Helene.

“What a delightful woman this little princess is!” said Prince

Vasili to Anna Pavlovna.

One of the next arrivals was a stout, heavily built young man with

close-cropped hair, spectacles, the light-colored breeches fashionable

at that time, a very high ruffle, and a brown dress coat. This stout

young man was an illegitimate son of Count Bezukhov, a well-known

grandee of Catherine’s time who now lay dying in Moscow. The young man

had not yet entered either the military or civil service, as he had

only just returned from abroad where he had been educated, and this

was his first appearance in society. Anna Pavlovna greeted him with

the nod she accorded to the lowest hierarchy in her drawing room.

But in spite of this lowest-grade greeting, a look of anxiety and

fear, as at the sight of something too large and unsuited to the

place, came over her face when she saw Pierre enter. Though he was

certainly rather bigger than the other men in the room, her anxiety

could only have reference to the clever though shy, but observant

and natural, expression which distinguished him from everyone else

in that drawing room.

“It is very good of you, Monsieur Pierre, to come and visit a poor

invalid,” said Anna Pavlovna, exchanging an alarmed glance with her

aunt as she conducted him to her.

Pierre murmured something unintelligible, and continued to look

round as if in search of something. On his way to the aunt he bowed to

the little princess with a pleased smile, as to an intimate

acquaintance.

Anna Pavlovna’s alarm was justified, for Pierre turned away from the

aunt without waiting to hear her speech about Her Majesty’s health.

Anna Pavlovna in dismay detained him with the words: “Do you know

the Abbe Morio? He is a most interesting man.”

“Yes, I have heard of his scheme for perpetual peace, and it is very

interesting but hardly feasible.”

“You think so?” rejoined Anna Pavlovna in order to say something and

get away to attend to her duties as hostess. But Pierre now

committed a reverse act of impoliteness. First he had left a lady

before she had finished speaking to him, and now he continued to speak

to another who wished to get away. With his head bent, and his big

feet spread apart, he began explaining his reasons for thinking the

abbe’s plan chimerical.

“We will talk of it later,” said Anna Pavlovna with a smile.

And having got rid of this young man who did not know how to behave,

she resumed her duties as hostess and continued to listen and watch,

ready to help at any point where the conversation might happen to

flag. As the foreman of a spinning mill, when he has set the hands

to work, goes round and notices here a spindle that has stopped or

there one that creaks or makes more noise than it should, and

hastens to check the machine or set it in proper motion, so Anna

Pavlovna moved about her drawing room, approaching now a silent, now a

too-noisy group, and by a word or slight rearrangement kept the

conversational machine in steady, proper, and regular motion. But amid

these cares her anxiety about Pierre was evident. She kept an

anxious watch on him when he approached the group round Mortemart to

listen to what was being said there, and again when he pbumed to

another group whose center was the abbe.

Pierre had been educated abroad, and this reception at Anna

Pavlovna’s was the first he had attended in Russia. He knew that all

the intellectual lights of Petersburg were gathered there and, like

a child in a toyshop, did not know which way to look, afraid of

missing any clever conversation that was to be heard. Seeing the

self-confident and refined expression on the faces of those present he

was always expecting to hear something very profound. At last he

came up to Morio. Here the conversation seemed interesting and he

stood waiting for an opportunity to express his own views, as young

people are fond of doing.

Anna Pavlovna’s reception was in full swing. The spindles hummed

steadily and ceaselessly on all sides. With the exception of the aunt,

beside whom sat only one elderly lady, who with her thin careworn face

was rather out of place in this brilliant society, the whole company

had settled into three groups. One, chiefly masculine, had formed

round the abbe. Another, of young people, was grouped round the

beautiful Princess Helene, Prince Vasili’s daughter, and the little

Princess Bolkonskaya, very pretty and rosy, though rather too plump

for her age. The third group was gathered round Mortemart and Anna

Pavlovna.

The vicomte was a nice-looking young man with soft features and

polished manners, who evidently considered himself a celebrity but out

of politeness modestly placed himself at the disposal of the circle in

which he found himself. Anna Pavlovna was obviously serving him up

as a treat to her guests. As a clever maitre d’hotel serves up as a

specially choice delicacy a piece of meat that no one who had seen

it in the kitchen would have cared to eat, so Anna Pavlovna served

up to her guests, first the vicomte and then the abbe, as peculiarly

choice morsels. The group about Mortemart immediately began discussing

the murder of the Duc d’Enghien. The vicomte said that the Duc

d’Enghien had perished by his own magnanimity, and that there were

particular reasons for Buonaparte’s hatred of him.

“Ah, yes! Do tell us all about it, Vicomte,” said Anna Pavlovna,

with a pleasant feeling that there was something a la Louis XV in

the sound of that sentence: “Contez nous cela, Vicomte.”

The vicomte bowed and smiled courteously in token of his willingness

to comply. Anna Pavlovna arranged a group round him, inviting everyone

to listen to his tale.

“The vicomte knew the duc personally,” whispered Anna Pavlovna to of

the guests. “The vicomte is a wonderful raconteur,” said she to

another. “How evidently he belongs to the best society,” said she to a

third; and the vicomte was served up to the company in the choicest

and most advantageous style, like a well-garnished joint of roast beef

on a hot dish.

The vicomte wished to begin his story and gave a subtle smile.

“Come over here, Helene, dear,” said Anna Pavlovna to the

beautiful young princess who was sitting some way off, the center of

another group.

The princess smiled. She rose with the same unchanging smile with

which she had first entered the room—the smile of a perfectly

beautiful woman. With a slight rustle of her white dress trimmed

with moss and ivy, with a gleam of white shoulders, glossy hair, and

sparkling diamonds, she pbumed between the men who made way for her,

not looking at any of them but smiling on all, as if graciously

allowing each the privilege of admiring her beautiful figure and

shapely shoulders, back, and bosom—which in the fashion of those days

were very much exposed—and she seemed to bring the glamour of a

ballroom with her as she moved toward Anna Pavlovna. Helene was so

lovely that not only did she not show any trace of coquetry, but on

the contrary she even appeared shy of her unquestionable and all too

victorious beauty. She seemed to wish, but to be unable, to diminish

its effect.

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