"My dear Boris,"
said Princess Anna Mikhaylovna to her son
as Countess Rostova's carriage
in which they were seated drove over the
straw covered street and turned into
the wide courtyard of Count Cyril
Vladimirovich Bezukhov's house.
"My dear Boris,"
said the mother,
drawing her hand from beneath her old mantle
and laying it timidly and tenderly on her son's arm,
"be affectionate and attentive to him.
Count Cyril Vladimirovich is
your godfather after all,
your future depends on him. Remember that, my dear,
and be nice to him, as you
so well know how to be."
"If only I knew that anything besides
humiliation would come of it..."
answered her son coldly.
"But I have promised and will do it for your sake."
Although the hall porter saw someone's carriage
standing at the entrance,
after scrutinizing the mother and son
(who without asking to be announced had passed straight
through the glass porch between the
rows of statues in niches) and looking significantly
at the lady's old cloak,
he asked whether
they wanted the count or the princesses,
and, hearing that they wished to see the count,
said his excellency was worse today,
and that his excellency was not receiving anyone.
"We may as well go back," said the son in French.
"My dear!" exclaimed his mother imploringly,
again laying her hand on his arm
as if that touch might soothe or rouse him.