WHEN ANNA MIHALOVNA had driven off with her son to Count Kirill Vladimirovitch Bezuhov's, Countess Rostov sat a long while alone, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. At last she rang the bell.

“What does it mean?” she said angrily to the maid, who had kept her waiting a few minutes; “don't you care for my service, eh? I'll find you another place, if so.”

The countess was distressed at the troubles and degrading poverty of her friend, and so out of humour, which always found expression in such remarks to her servants.

“I'm very sorry,” said the maid.

“Ask the count to come to me.”

The count came waddling in to see his wife, looking, as usual, rather guilty.

“Well, little countess! What a sauté of woodcocks and Madeira we're to have, ma chère! I've tried it; I did well to give a thousand roubles for Taras. He's worth it!”

He sat down by his wife, setting his elbow jauntily on his knee, and ruffling up his grey hair. “What are your commands, little countess?”

“It's this, my dear—why, what is this mess on you here?” she said, pointing to his waistcoat. “It's the sauté, most likely,” she added, smiling. “It's this, my dear, I want some money.” Her face became gloomy.

“Ah, little countess! …” And the count fidgeted about, pulling out his pocket-book.

“I want a great deal, count. I want five hundred roubles.” And taking out her cambric handkerchief she wiped her husband's waistcoat.

“This minute, this minute. Hey, who's there?” he shouted, as men only shout who are certain that those they call will run headlong at their summons. “Send Mitenka to me!”

Mitenka, the young man of noble family who had been brought up in the count's house, and now had charge of all his money affairs, walked softly into the room.

“Here, my dear boy,” said the count to the young man, who came up respectfully. “Bring me,” he thought a moment, “yes, seven hundred roubles, yes. And mind, don't bring me such torn and dirty notes as last time; nice ones now, for the countess.”

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