Anna Pavlovna’s evening party was like her first one， only the novel attraction which she had provided for her guests was not on this occasion Mortemart， but a diplomat， who had just arrived from Berlin， bringing the latest details of the Emperor Alexander’s stay at Potsdam， and of the inviolable alliance the two exalted friends had sworn together， to maintain the true cause against the enemy of the human race. Pierre was welcomed by Anna Pavlovna with a shade of melancholy， bearing unmistakable reference to the recent loss sustained by the young man in the death of Count Bezuhov （every one felt bound to be continually assuring Pierre that he was greatly afflicted at the death of his father， whom he had hardly known）. Her melancholy was of precisely the same kind as that more exalted melancholy she always displayed at any allusion to Her Most August Majesty the Empress Marya Fyodorovna. Pierre felt flattered by it. Anna Pavlovna had arranged the groups in her drawing-room with her usual skill. The larger group， in which were Prince Vassily and some generals， had the benefit of the diplomat. Another group gathered about the tea-table. Pierre would have liked to join the first group， but Anna Pavlovna， who was in the nervous excitement of a general on the battlefield， that mental condition in which numbers of brilliant new ideas occur to one that one has hardly time to put into execution—Anna Pavlovna， on seeing Pierre， detained him with a finger on his coat sleeve： “Wait， I have designs on you for this evening.”
She looked round at Ellen and smiled at her.
“My dear Hélène， you must show charity to my poor aunt， who has an adoration for you. Go and keep her company for ten minutes. And that you may not find it too tiresome， here’s our dear count， who certainly won’t refuse to follow you.”
The beauty moved away towards the old aunt； but Anna Pavlovna still detained Pierre at her side， with the air of having still some last and essential arrangement to make with him.
“She is exquisite， isn’t she？” she said to Pierre， indicating the majestic beauty swimming away from them. “And how she carries herself！ For such a young girl， what tact， what a finished perfection of manner. It comes from the heart. Happy will be the man who wins her. The most unworldly of men would take a brilliant place in society as her husband. That’s true， isn’t it？ I only wanted to know your opinion，” and Anna Pavlovna let Pierre go.
Pierre was perfectly sincere in giving an affirmative answer to her question about Ellen’s perfection of manner. If ever he thought of Ellen， it was either of her beauty that he thought， or of her extraordinary capacity for serene， dignified silence in society.
The old aunt received the two young people in her corner， but appeared anxious to conceal her adoration of Ellen， and rather to show her fear of Anna Pavlovna. She glanced at her niece， as though to inquire what she was to do with them. Anna Pavlovna again laid a finger on Pierre’s sleeve and said： “I hope you will never say in future that people are bored at my house，” and glanced at Ellen. Ellen smiled with an air， which seemed to say that she did not admit the possibility of any one’s seeing her without being enchanted. The old aunt coughed， swallowed the phlegm， and said in French that she was very glad to see Ellen； then she addressed Pierre with the same greeting and the same grimace. In the middle of a halting and tedious conversation， Ellen looked round at Pierre and smiled at him with the bright， beautiful smile with which she smiled at every one. Pierre was so used to this smile， it meant so little to him， that he did not even notice it. The aunt was speaking at that moment of a collection of snuff-boxes belonging to Pierre’s father， Count Bezuhov， and she showed them her snuff-box. Princess Ellen asked to look at the portrait of the aunt’s husband， which was on the snuff-box.
