After her father's funeral Princess Mary shuts herself in her room and admits no one. A maid says Alpatych is asking for orders about departure, this before his talk with Dron. Mary raises herself on the sofa and replies through the closed door that she does not mean to go away and begs to be left in peace. The windows look west. She faces the wall, fingers the buttons of a leather cushion, and thinks of the irrevocability of death and of the spiritual baseness she had not suspected, which showed itself during his illness. She wishes to pray and dares not address God in her present mind.
The sun reaches the other side of the house. Slanting rays light the morocco cushion. Unconsciously she sits up, goes to the window, and inhales the freshness of a clear, windy evening. Yes, you can enjoy the evening now. He is gone and no one will hinder you. She lets her head fall on the sill. Mademoiselle Bourienne, in black with weepers, speaks her name from the garden, kisses her head, and begins to cry. Former disharmony and jealousy recur, but Mary remembers how of late he could not bear to see Bourienne, and thinks it is not for her, who desired his death, to condemn anyone. She pities the dependent woman she has kept at a distance and holds out her hand. Bourienne speaks of shared sorrow and of being blameless. Mary hears the sound more than the words. Then Bourienne says her position is doubly terrible: they are surrounded by the French, it would be dangerous to move, they are almost sure to be taken prisoners. Mary says how little anything matters; she would not go away from him; speak to Alpatych. Bourienne thinks it better to stay than fall into the hands of soldiers or riotous peasants. From her reticule she takes General Rameau's proclamation, not on ordinary Russian paper, telling people not to leave their homes, the French authorities will afford protection.
Mary's face quivers. From whom did you get this? They probably recognized that I am French by my name, Bourienne blushes. Mary goes pale into what was Andrew's study, tells Dunyasha to send Alpatych or Dronushka and not to let Bourienne come. We must go at once. If Andrew heard that she, daughter of Prince Nicholas Bolkonski, had asked Rameau for protection! The idea makes her shudder, blush, and feel a rush of anger and pride she has never known. She sees the French in this house, the general in Andrew's study reading his letters, Bourienne doing the honours, herself in a small room as a favour, soldiers violating the newly dug grave for crosses and stars. For herself she does not care where she remains, but she feels herself the representative of her dead father and of Andrew. She sends for Michael Ivanovich, Tikhon, Dron. Alpatych has gone to the police. The architect answers with the same smile of agreement he gave the old prince for fifteen years. Tikhon, emaciated with grief, says Yes, Princess and hardly refrains from sobbing. Dron stops by the doorpost. Mary calls him dear friend, the man who used to bring gingerbread from the Vyazma fair. Since our misfortune... We are all in God's hands. Is it true she cannot even go away? Why shouldn't you go? You can go. She wants to go tonight or at dawn. There are no horses. It is all God's scourge; horses taken for the army or dead; some go three days without eating. The peasants are ruined? Dying of hunger? Why didn't you tell me? She is glad of cares that let her forget her own grief without scruple. Give them the landlord's grain, all they need, in my brother's name. What is ours is theirs. We do not grudge them anything. Dron looks intently, then: Discharge me, little mother, for God's sake. I have served twenty-three years and have done no wrong. Mary does not understand what he wants. She replies that she has never doubted his devotion and is ready to do anything for him and for the peasants.
