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She
stood
with
her
slender
arms
hanging
down
,
her
scarcely
defined
bosom
rising
and
falling
regularly
,
and
with
bated
breath
and
glittering
,
frightened
eyes
gazed
straight
before
her
,
evidently
prepared
for
the
height
of
joy
or
misery
.
She
was
not
concerned
about
the
Emperor
or
any
of
those
great
people
whom
Perónskaya
was
pointing
out
--
she
had
but
one
thought
:
"
Is
it
possible
no
one
will
ask
me
,
that
I
shall
not
be
among
the
first
to
dance
?
Is
it
possible
that
not
one
of
all
these
men
will
notice
me
?
They
do
not
even
seem
to
see
me
,
or
if
they
do
they
look
as
if
they
were
saying
,
'
Ah
,
she
's
not
the
one
I
'm
after
,
so
it
's
not
worth
looking
at
her
!
'
No
,
it
's
impossible
,
"
she
thought
.
"
They
must
know
how
I
long
to
dance
,
how
splendidly
I
dance
,
and
how
they
would
enjoy
dancing
with
me
.
"
The
strains
of
the
polonaise
,
which
had
continued
for
a
considerable
time
,
had
begun
to
sound
like
a
sad
reminiscence
to
Natásha
's
ears
.
She
wanted
to
cry
.
Perónskaya
had
left
them
.
The
count
was
at
the
other
end
of
the
room
.
She
and
the
countess
and
Sónya
were
standing
by
themselves
as
in
the
depths
of
a
forest
amid
that
crowd
of
strangers
,
with
no
one
interested
in
them
and
not
wanted
by
anyone
.
Prince
Andrew
with
a
lady
passed
by
,
evidently
not
recognizing
them
.
The
handsome
Anatole
was
smilingly
talking
to
a
partner
on
his
arm
and
looked
at
Natásha
as
one
looks
at
a
wall
.
Borís
passed
them
twice
and
each
time
turned
away
.
Berg
and
his
wife
,
who
were
not
dancing
,
came
up
to
them
.
This
family
gathering
seemed
humiliating
to
Natásha
--
as
if
there
were
nowhere
else
for
the
family
to
talk
but
here
at
the
ball
.
She
did
not
listen
to
or
look
at
Véra
,
who
was
telling
her
something
about
her
own
green
dress
.
At
last
the
Emperor
stopped
beside
his
last
partner
(
he
had
danced
with
three
)
and
the
music
ceased
.
A
worried
aide-de-camp
ran
up
to
the
Rostóvs
requesting
them
to
stand
farther
back
,
though
as
it
was
they
were
already
close
to
the
wall
,
and
from
the
gallery
resounded
the
distinct
,
precise
,
enticingly
rhythmical
strains
of
a
waltz
.
The
Emperor
looked
smilingly
down
the
room
.
A
minute
passed
but
no
one
had
yet
begun
dancing
.
An
aide-de-camp
,
the
Master
of
Ceremonies
,
went
up
to
Countess
Bezúkhova
and
asked
her
to
dance
.
She
smilingly
raised
her
hand
and
laid
it
on
his
shoulder
without
looking
at
him
.
The
aide-de-camp
,
an
adept
in
his
art
,
grasping
his
partner
firmly
round
her
waist
,
with
confident
deliberation
started
smoothly
,
gliding
first
round
the
edge
of
the
circle
,
then
at
the
corner
of
the
room
he
caught
Hélène
's
left
hand
and
turned
her
,
the
only
sound
audible
,
apart
from
the
ever-quickening
music
,
being
the
rhythmic
click
of
the
spurs
on
his
rapid
,
agile
feet
,
while
at
every
third
beat
his
partner
's
velvet
dress
spread
out
and
seemed
to
flash
as
she
whirled
round
.
Natásha
gazed
at
them
and
was
ready
to
cry
because
it
was
not
she
who
was
dancing
that
first
turn
of
the
waltz
.
Prince
Andrew
,
in
the
white
uniform
of
a
cavalry
colonel
,
wearing
stockings
and
dancing
shoes
,
stood
looking
animated
and
bright
in
the
front
row
of
the
circle
not
far
from
the
Rostóvs
.
Baron
Firhoff
was
talking
to
him
about
the
first
sitting
of
the
Council
of
State
to
be
held
next
day
.
Prince
Andrew
,
as
one
closely
connected
with
Speránski
and
participating
in
the
work
of
the
legislative
commission
,
could
give
reliable
information
about
that
sitting
,
concerning
which
various
rumors
were
current
.
But
not
listening
to
what
Firhoff
was
saying
,
he
was
gazing
now
at
the
sovereign
and
now
at
the
men
intending
to
dance
who
had
not
yet
gathered
courage
to
enter
the
circle
.
Prince
Andrew
was
watching
these
men
abashed
by
the
Emperor
's
presence
,
and
the
women
who
were
breathlessly
longing
to
be
asked
to
dance
.
Pierre
came
up
to
him
and
caught
him
by
the
arm
.
"
You
always
dance
.
I
have
a
protégée
,
the
young
Rostóva
,
here
.
Ask
her
,
"
he
said
.
