When after service they were drinking coffee in the drawing-room， where the covers had been removed from the furniture， the servant announced that the carriage was ready， and Marya Dmitryevna， dressed in her best shawl in which she paid calls， rose with a stern air， and announced that she was going to call on Prince Nikolay Andreitch Bolkonsky to ask for an explanation of his conduct about Natasha. After Marya Dmitryevna had gone， a dressmaker waited upon the Rostovs from Madame Chalmey， and Natasha， very glad of a diversion， went into a room adjoining the drawing-room， and shutting the door between， began trying on her new dresses. Just as she had put on a bodice basted together， with the sleeves not yet tacked in， and was turning her head to look at the fit of the back in the looking-glass， she caught the sound of her father’s voice in the drawing-room in eager conversation with another voice， a woman’s voice， which made her flush red. It was the voice of Ellen. Before Natasha had time to take off the bodice she was trying on， the door opened， and Countess Bezuhov walked into the room， wearing a dark heliotrope velvet gown with a high collar， and beaming with a good-natured and friendly smile.
“O my enchantress！” she said to the blushing Natasha. “Charming！ No， this is really beyond anything， count，” she said to Count Ilya Andreitch， who had followed her in. “How can you be in Moscow， and go nowhere？ No， I won’t let you off！ This evening we have Mademoiselle George giving a recitation， and a few people are coming； and if you don’t bring your lovely girls， who are much prettier than Mademoiselle George， I give up knowing you！ My husband’s not here， he has gone away to Tver， or I should have sent him for you. You must come， you positively must， before nine o’clock.”
She nodded to the dressmaker， who knew her， and was curtseying respectfully， and seated herself in a low chair beside the looking-glass， draping the folds of her velvet gown picturesquely about her. She kept up a flow of good-humoured and light-hearted chatter， and repeatedly expressed her enthusiastic admiration of Natasha’s beauty. She looked through her dresses and admired them， spoke with admiration， too， of a new dress of her own “of metallic gas，” which she had received from Paris， and advised Natasha to have one like it.
“But anything suits you， my charmer！” she declared. The smile of pleasure never left Natasha’s face. She felt happy， and as it were blossoming out under the praises of this charming Countess Bezuhov， who had seemed to her before a lady so unapproachable and dignified， and was now being so king to her. Natasha’s spirits rose， and she felt almost in love with this handsome and good-natured woman. Ellen， for her part， was genuine in her admiration of Natasha， and in her desire to make her enjoy herself. Anatole had begged her to throw him with Natasha， and it was with that object she had come to the Rostovs’. The idea of throwing her brother and Natasha together amused her.
Although Ellen had once owed Natasha a grudge for carrying off Boris from her in Petersburg， she thought no more of that now， and with all her heart wished Natasha nothing but good. As she was leaving the Rostovs’， she drew her protégée aside.
“My brother was dining with me yesterday—we half died with laughing at him—he won’t eat， and does nothing but sigh for you， my charmer！ He is madly， madly in love with you， my dear.”
Natasha flushed crimson on hearing those words.
“How she blushes， how she blushes， my pretty！” Ellen went on. “You must be sure to come. If you do love some one， it is not a reason to cloister yourself. Even if you are betrothed， I am sure your betrothed would have preferred you to go into society rather than to languish in ennui.”
“So then she knows I am engaged. So then they with her husband， with Pierre， with that good Pierre， talked and laughed about it. So that it means nothing.”
And again under Ellen’s influence what had struck her before as terrible seemed to her simple and natural. “And she， such a grande dame， is so kind， and obviously she likes me with all her heart，” thought Natasha. “And why not enjoy myself，” thought Natasha， gazing at Ellen with wide-open， wondering eyes.
Marya Dmitryevna came back to dinner silent and serious， having evidently been defeated by the old prince. She was too much agitated by the conflict she had been through to be able to describe the interview. To the count’s inquiries， she replied that everything had been all right and she would tell him about it next day. On hearing of the visit of Countess Bezuhov and the invitation for the evening， Marya Dmitryevna said：
“I don’t care to associate with Countess Bezuhov and I don’t advise you to， but still， since you have promised， better go. It will divert your mind，” she added， addressing Natasha.
