“Why talk nonsense? Say what you want.”

“Why talk nonsense? Say what you want.”

“When my wife’s confinement is due, send to Moscow for an accoucheur … Let him be here.”

The old man stopped and stared with stern eyes at his son, as though not understanding.

“I know that no one can be of use, if nature does not assist,” said Prince Andrey, evidently confused. “I admit that out of a million cases only one goes wrong, but it’s her fancy and mine. They’ve been telling her things; she’s had a dream and she’s frightened.”

“H’m…h’m …” the old prince muttered to himself, going on with his writing. “I will do so.” He scribbled his signature, and suddenly turned quickly to his son and laughed.

“It’s a bad business, eh?”

“What’s a bad business, father?”

“Wife!” the old prince said briefly and significantly.

“I don’t understand,” said Prince Andrey.

“But there’s no help for it, my dear boy,” said the old prince; “they’re all like that, and there’s no getting unmarried again. Don’t be afraid, I won’t say a word to any one, but you know it yourself.”

He grasped his hand with his thin, little, bony fingers, shook it, looked straight into his son’s face with his keen eyes, that seemed to see right through any one, and again he laughed his frigid laugh.

The son sighed, acknowledging in that sigh that his father understood him. The old man, still busy folding and sealing the letters with his habitual rapidity, snatched up and flung down again the wax, the seal, and the paper.

“It can’t be helped. She’s pretty. I’ll do everything. Set your mind at rest,” he said jerkily, as he sealed the letter.

Andrey did not speak; it was both pleasant and painful to him that his father understood him. The old man got up and gave his son the letter.

“Listen,” said he. “Don’t worry about your wife; what can be done shall be done. Now, listen; give this letter to Mihail Ilarionovitch. I write that he is to make use of you on good work, and not to keep you long an adjutant; a vile duty! Tell him I remember him and like him. And write to me how he receives you. If he’s all right, serve him. The son of Nikolay Andreitch Bolkonsky has no need to serve under any man as a favour. Now, come here.”

He spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half of his words, but his son was used to understanding him. He led his son to the bureau, opened it, drew out a drawer, and took out of it a manuscript book filled with his bold, big, compressed handwriting.