“How can you not understand， Katish， really！ You are so intelligent； how is it you don’t understand that if the count has written a letter to the Emperor， begging him to recognise his son as legitimate， then Pierre will not be Pierre but Count Bezuhov， and then he will inherit everything under the will？ And if the will and the letter have not been destroyed， then except the consolation of having been dutiful and of all that results from having done your duty， nothing is left for you. That’s the fact.”
“I know that the will was made， but I know， too， that it is invalid， and you seem to take me for a perfect fool， mon cousin，” said the princess， with the air with which women speak when they imagine they are saying something witty and biting.
“My dear princess， Katerina Semyonovna！” Prince Vassily began impatiently， “I have come to you not to provoke you， but to talk to you as a kinswoman， a good， kind-hearted， true kinswoman， of your own interests. I tell you for the tenth time that if the letter to the Emperor and the will in Pierre’s favour are among the count’s papers， you， my dear girl， and your sisters are not heiresses. If you don’t believe me， believe people who know； I have just been talking to Dmitry Onufritch” （this was the family solicitor）； “he said the same.”
There was obviously some sudden change in the princess’s ideas； her thin lips turned white （her eyes did not change）， and when she began to speak， her voice passed through transitions， which she clearly did not herself anticipate.
“That would be a pretty thing，” she said. “I wanted nothing， and I want nothing.” She flung her dog off her lap and smoothed out the folds of her skirt.
“That’s the gratitude， that’s the recognition people get who have sacrificed everything for him，” she said. “Very nice！ Excellent！ I don’t want anything， prince.”
“Yes， but you are not alone， you have sisters，” answered Prince Vassily. But the princess did not heed him.
“Yes， I knew it long ago， but I’d forgotten that I could expect nothing in this house but baseness， deceit， envy， scheming， nothing but ingratitude， the blackest ingratitude …”
“Do you or do you not know where that will is？” asked Prince Vassily， the twitching of his cheeks more marked than ever.
“Yes， I have been foolish； I still kept faith in people， and cared for them and sacrificed myself. But no one succeeds except those who are base and vile. I know whose plotting this is.”
The princess would have risen， but the prince held her by the arm. The princess had the air of a person who has suddenly lost faith in the whole human race. She looked viciously at her companion.
“There is still time， my dear. Remember， Katish， that all this was done heedlessly， in a moment of anger， of illness， and then forgotten. Our duty， my dear girl， is to correct his mistake， to soften his last moments by not letting him commit this injustice， not letting him die with the thought that he has made miserable those …”
“Those who have sacrificed everything for him，” the princess caught him up； and she made an impulsive effort again to stand up， but the prince would not let her， “a sacrifice he has never known how to appreciate. No， mon cousin，” she added， with a sigh， “I will remember that one can expect no reward in this world， that in this world there is no honour， no justice. Cunning and wickedness is what one wants in this world.”
“Come， voyons， calm yourself； I know your noble heart.”
“No， I have a wicked heart.”
“I know your heart，” repeated the prince. “I value your affection， and I could wish you had the same opinion of me. Calm yourself and let us talk sensibly while there is time—perhaps twenty-four hours， perhaps one. Tell me all you know about the will， and what’s of most consequence， where it is； you must know. We will take it now at once and show it to the count. He has no doubt forgotten about it and would wish to destroy it. You understand that my desire is to carry out his wishes religiously. That is what I came here for. I am only here to be of use to him and to you.”
“Now I see it all. I know whose plotting this is. I know，” the princess was saying.
“That’s not the point， my dear.”
“It’s all your precious Anna Mihalovna， your protégée whom I wouldn’t take as a housemaid， the nasty creature.”
“Do not let us waste time.”
“Oh， don’t talk to me！ Last winter she forced her way in here and told such a pack of vile， mean tales to the count about all of us， especially Sophie—I can’t repeat them—that it made the count ill， and he wouldn’t see us for a fortnight. It was at that time， I know， he wrote that hateful， infamous document， but I thought it was of no consequence.”
“There we are. Why didn’t you tell us about it before？”
“It’s in the inlaid portfolio that he keeps under his pillow. Now I know，” said the princess， making no reply. “Yes， if I have a sin to my account， a great sin， it’s my hatred of that infamous woman，” almost shrieked the princess， utterly transformed. “And why does she force herself in here？ But I’ll have it out with her. The time will come！”
