PIERRE did not stay to dinner but went away at once on leaving Natasha's room. He drove about the town looking for Anatole Kuragin, at the very thought of whom the blood rushed to his heart, and he felt a difficulty in breathing. On the ice-hills, at the gypsies', at Somoneno he was not to be found. Pierre drove to the club. In the club everything was going on just as usual: the members who had come in to dinner were sitting in groups; they greeted Pierre, and talked of the news of the town. The footman, after greeting him, told him, as he knew his friends and his habits, that there was a place left for him in the little dining-room, that Prince Mihail Zaharitch was in the library, and that Pavel Timofeitch had not come in yet. One of Pierre's acquaintances asked him in the middle of a conversation about the weather, whether he had heard of Kuragin's elopement with Natalie Rostov, of which every one was talking in the town; was it true? Pierre said, laughing, that it was all nonsense, for he had just come from the Rostovs'. He asked every one about Anatole; one man told him he had not come in yet; another said he was to dine there that day. It was strange to Pierre to look at that calm, indifferent crowd of people, who knew nothing of what was passing in his soul. He walked about the hall, waited till every one had come in, and still seeing nothing of Anatole, he did not dine, but drove home.
Anatole was dining that day with Dolohov, and consulting with him how to achieve the exploit that had miscarried. It seemed to him essential to see Natasha. In the evening he went to his sister's, to discuss with her means for arranging their meeting. When Pierre, after vainly driving about all Moscow, returned home, his valet told him that Prince Anatole Vassilyevitch was with the countess. The drawing-room of the countess was full of guests.
Pierre did not bestow a greeting on his wife, whom he had not seen since his return (she was more hateful to him than ever at that moment); he walked into the drawing-room, and seeing Anatole, went straight up to him.
“Ah, Pierre,” said the countess, going up to her husband, “you don't know what a plight our poor Anatole is in …” She stopped short, seeing in her husband's bowed head, in his glittering eyes, in his resolute tread, that terrible look of rage and power, which she knew and had experienced in her own case after the duel with Dolohov.
“Wherever you are, there is vice and wickedness,” said Pierre to his wife. “Anatole, come along, I want a word with you,” he said in French. Anatole looked round at his sister, and got up obediently, prepared to follow Pierre.
Pierre took him by the arm, drew him to him, and walked out of the room.
“If you allow yourself in my drawing-room…” Ellen whispered; but Pierre walked out of the room, without answering her.
Anatole followed him, with his usual jaunty swagger. But his face betrayed uneasiness. Going into his own room, Pierre shut the door, and addressed Anatole without looking at him. “Did you promise Countess Rostov to marry her? Did you try to elope with her?”
“My dear fellow,” answered Anatole, in French (as was the whole conversation), “I don't consider myself bound to answer questions put to me in that tone.”
Pierre's face, which had been pale before, was distorted by fury. With his big hand he clutched Anatole by the collar of his uniform, and proceeded to shake him from side to side, till Anatole's face showed a sufficient degree of terror.
“When I say I want a word with you …” Pierre repeated.
“Well, what? this is stupid. Eh?” said Anatole, feeling a button of his collar that had been torn off with the cloth.
“You're a scoundrel and a blackguard; and I don't know what prevents me from permitting myself the pleasure of braining you with this, see,” said Pierre, expressing himself so artificially, because he was speaking French. He took up a heavy paper-weight, and lifted it in a menacing way, but at once hurriedly put it down in its place.
“Did you promise to marry her?”
“I, I, … I … didn't think … I never promised, though, because …”
Pierre interrupted him.
“Have you any of her letters? Have you any letters?” Pierre repeated, advancing upon Anatole. Anatole glanced at him, and at once thrust his hand in his pocket, and took out a pocket-book.
Pierre took the letter he gave him, and pushing away a table that stood in the way, he plumped down on the sofa.
“I won't be violent, don't be afraid,” said Pierre, in response to a gesture of alarm from Anatole. “Letters—one,” said Pierre, as though repeating a lesson to himself. “Two”—after a moment's silence he went on, getting up again and beginning to walk about—“to-morrow you are to leave Moscow.”
“But how can I …?”
“Three”—Pierre went on, not heeding him—“you are never to say a word of what has passed between you and the young countess. That I know I can't prevent your doing; but if you have a spark of conscience …” Pierre walked several times up and down the room. Anatole sat at the table, scowling and biting his lips.
“You surely must understand that, apart from your own pleasure, there's the happiness, the peace of other people; that you are ruining a whole life, simply because you want to amuse yourself. Amuse yourself with women like my wife—with them you're within your rights, they know what it is you want of them. They are armed against you by the same experience of vice; but to promise a girl to marry her … to deceive, to steal … Surely you must see that it's as base as attacking an old man or a child!…”
Pierre paused and glanced at Anatole, more with inquiry now than with wrath.
“I don't know about that. Eh?” said Anatole, growing bolder as Pierre gained control over his rage. “I don't know about that, and I don't want to,” he said, looking away from Pierre, and speaking with a slight quiver of his lower jaw, “but you have said words to me, base and all that sort of thing, which as a man of honour I can't allow any one to do.”
Pierre looked at him in amazement, not able to understand what it was he wanted.
“Though it has been only tête-à-tête,” Anatole went on, “still I can't …”
“What, do you want satisfaction?” said Pierre sarcastically.
“At any rate you might take back your words. Eh? If you want me to do as you wish. Eh!”
“I'll take them back, I'll take them back,” said Pierre, “and beg you to forgive me.” Pierre could not help glancing at the loose button. “And here's money too, if you want some for your journey.”
Anatole smiled.
The expression of that base and cringing smile, that he knew so well in his wife, infuriated Pierre. “Oh, you vile, heartless tribe!” he cried, and walked out of the room.
Next day Anatole left for Petersburg.
皮埃尔没有留下来吃午饭，他马上从房里出来，乘车上路了。他到城里各处去寻找阿纳托利·库拉金，现在他心中一想到库拉金，血就会涌上心头，于是他感到呼吸困难。滑雪橇的高台上、茨冈女郎家里、科莫涅诺家里——都没有看见他的人影。皮埃尔走到了俱乐部。俱乐部的一切活动照常进行：前来聚餐的客人三五成群地坐在那里，都向皮埃尔问好，谈论城里的最新消息。仆人都认识他的熟人，知道他的习惯，向他问好之后，禀告他说，他们在小餐厅里给他留了一个席位，米哈伊尔·扎哈雷奇公爵还在图书馆，帕维尔·季英费伊奇尚未回来。皮埃尔的一个熟人在谈论天气时问他是否听到有关库拉金拐骗罗斯托娃这件事，关于这件事城里议论纷纷，但未卜是否属实？皮埃尔不禁莞尔一笑，并且说这里荒诞无稽的话，因为他刚从罗斯托夫家来。他向大家打听阿纳托利的情况，有人对他说，阿纳托利还没有回来，另外一个人说今天他会回来吃午饭。皮埃尔望着这群镇静而冷淡、不知道他的内心活动的人，觉得很奇怪。他在大厅里踱起方步来，等到客人们聚集在一块，但是没有等到阿纳托利来，他就不吃午饭回家去了。
这一天，他所寻找的阿纳托利在多洛霍夫家里吃中饭，和他商议怎样挽回这件给弄糟了的事。他仿佛觉得非与罗斯托娃相会不可。晚上他到妹妹那儿去了，和她商量安排约会的办法。当皮埃尔白白地走遍莫斯科、回到家中之后，仆人禀告他说，阿纳托利·瓦西里耶维奇公爵正呆在伯爵夫人那里。
伯爵夫人的客厅挤满了客人。
皮埃尔不同他抵达之后未曾会面的妻子打招呼（这时他觉得她比任何时候都更可恨），他走进客厅，看见阿纳托利后，向他跟前走去。
“啊，皮埃尔，”伯爵夫人走到丈夫跟前说。“你不知道，我的阿纳托利正处于什么境地……”她停住了，从丈夫的低垂着的脑袋、闪闪发亮的眼睛和坚定的步态看出了在他和多洛霍夫决斗后她所熟悉而且体察到的他那种狂暴的可怕的表情。
“那里淫荡、那里作恶，您就在那里出现，”皮埃尔对妻子说，“阿纳托利，咱们走吧，我要和您谈谈。”他用法语说。
阿纳托利回头望望妹妹，顺从地站立起来，准备跟在皮埃尔后面走。
皮埃尔抓住他的手，向自己身边一拽，从房里出去。
“Si vous vous permettez dans mon salon．”①海伦低声地说，然而皮埃尔不回答她的话，他从房里走出动了。
①法语：假如您在我客厅里放肆。
阿纳托利和平素一样，迈着矫健的步伐跟在他后面。但是他脸上明显地流露出惊慌不安的表情。
皮埃尔走进自己的书斋，关上了房门，连望也不望他，就向他转过身去。
“您向伯爵小姐罗斯托娃许愿，娶她为妻吗？您想把她拐走吗？”
“我亲爱的，”阿纳托利操着法国话回答（整个谈话都用法语进行），“我不认为自己应该回答您用这种语调向我盘问的话。”
皮埃尔的面孔原来就很苍白，但此刻因为狂怒变得难看了。他用那只大手抓住阿纳托利制服的领子，向左右摇晃，直到阿纳托利脸上现出惊恐万状为止。
“当我说，我要和您谈谈……”皮埃尔重复一句话。
“怎么啦，简直是胡闹，啊？”阿纳托利摸着连呢绒一起给扯掉的领扣时这样说。
“您是个坏蛋和恶汉，我不知道是什么在控制住我，我可惜没有拿这样东西打破您的头，”皮埃尔说，——因为他说法国话，所以才用矫揉造作的语言骂人。他攥起沉甸甸的吸墨器，举起来吓唬他，旋即又赶快放回原来的地方。
“您答应和她结婚吗？”
“我，我，我没有这样想，其实，我从来没有答应，因为……”
皮埃尔打断他的话。
“您有她的信吗？您有信吗？”皮埃尔向阿纳托利身边走去，又把说过的话再说一遍。
阿纳托利看了他一眼，马上把手伸进口袋里，拿出一个皮夹子。
皮埃尔拿起一封递给他的信，推开摆在路上的桌子，一屁股坐到沙发上。
“Je ne serai pas violent，ne craignez rien”，①皮埃尔看见阿纳托利惊惶失措的神态，便这样回答。“第一是：把信留在这里，”皮埃尔就像背书似的说。“第二是，”——他沉默片刻后继续说，他又站起来，开始踱方步，——“明天您必须离开莫斯科。”
①法语：不用怕，我不会对您怎么样。
“可是我怎么能够……”
“第三是，”皮埃尔不听他的话，继续说下去，“您和伯爵小姐之间的事情，应永世只字不提。我晓得，我无法禁止您这样做，但若您有一点良心的话……”皮埃尔在房间里来回地踱了几次。阿纳托利皱起眉头，咬着嘴唇，在桌旁坐着。
“您终究不会不明白，除开您的欢乐之外，尚有他人的幸福和安宁，您想要寻欢作乐，因而断送他人的一生。您玩弄，像我夫人之类的女人，您认为玩弄这些女人是合乎情理的事，她们知道，您心中想要什么。她们都具有同样淫荡的经验来应付您，但是答应和一个姑娘结婚……欺骗她，拐骗她……
您怎么竟不明白，你这种事就像殴打老人或小孩可鄙！
……”
皮埃尔沉默起来，他用那不是忿怒的，而是疑问的眼神向阿纳托利瞟了一眼。
“这个我可不知道。啊？”阿纳托利说，当皮埃尔压住怒火的时候，他逐渐地振作起来。“这个我可不知道，也不想知道，”他两眼不望皮埃尔，下颏略微颤抖着说，“可是您对我说出这种话来：可鄙等等，我这个comme un homme d'
honneur①，决不容许任何人说这种话。”
①法语：诚实人。
皮埃尔惊奇地望望他，他没法明了，他需要什么。
“虽然没有旁人在场，”阿纳托利继续说，“但是我不能……”
“怎么，您要获得补偿吗？”皮埃尔讥讽地说。
“至少您可以收回所说的话。啊？倘若您想要我实现您的愿望。啊？”
“我收回，我收回所说的话，”皮埃尔说，“并且请您原谅我。”
皮埃尔不由自主地望望给他扯下来的领扣。“如果您需要路费，就把钱拿去。”阿纳托利微微一笑。
他从妻子脸上见过的这种畏葸而可鄙的微笑，触怒了皮埃尔。
“噢，可鄙的残忍的家伙！”他说完这句话，便从房里走出动。
第二天，阿纳托利往彼得堡去了。
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