Mademoiselle Bourienne， who had also been thrown by Anatole’s arrival into a high state of excitement， was absorbed in reflections of a different order. Naturally， a beautiful young girl with no defined position in society， without friends or relations， without even a country of her own， did not look forward to devoting her life to waiting on Prince Nikolay Andreivitch， to reading him books and being a friend to Princess Marya. Mademoiselle Bourienne had long been looking forward to the Russian prince， who would have the discrimination to discern her superiority to the ugly， badly dressed， ungainly Russian princesses—who would fall in love with her and bear her away. And now this Russian prince at last had come. Mademoiselle Bourienne knew a story she had heard from her aunt， and had finished to her own taste， which she loved to go over in her own imagination. It was the story of how a girl had been seduced， and her poor mother （sa pauvre mère） had appeared to her and reproached her for yielding to a man’s allurements without marriage. Mademoiselle was often touched to tears， as in imagination she told “him，” her seducer， this tale. Now this “he，” a real Russian prince， had appeared. He would elope with her， then “my poor mother” would come on the scene， and he would marry her. This was how all her future history shaped itself in Mademoiselle Bourienne’s brain at the very moment when she was talking to him of Paris. Mademoiselle Bourienne was not guided by calculations （she did not even consider for one instant what she would do）， but it had all been ready within her long before， and now it all centred about Anatole as soon as he appeared， and she wished and tried to attract him as much as possible.
The little princess， like an old warhorse hearing the blast of the trumpet， was prepared to gallop off into a flirtation as her habit was， unconsciously forgetting her position， with no ulterior motive， no struggle， nothing but ******-hearted， frivolous gaiety in her heart.
Although in feminine society Anatole habitually took up the attitude of a man weary of the attentions of women， his vanity was agreeably flattered by the spectacle of the effect he produced on these three women. Moreover， he was beginning to feel towards the pretty and provocative Mademoiselle Bourienne that violent， animal feeling， which was apt to come upon him with extreme rapidity， and to impel him to the coarsest and most reckless actions.
After tea the party moved into the divan-room， and Princess Marya was asked to play on the clavichord. Anatole leaned on his elbow facing her， and near Mademoiselle Bourienne， and his eyes were fixed on Princess Marya， full of laughter and glee. Princess Marya felt his eyes upon her with troubled and joyful agitation. Her favourite sonata bore her away to a world of soul-felt poetry， and the feeling of his eyes upon her added still more poetry to that world. The look in Anatole’s eyes， though they were indeed fixed upon her， had reference not to her， but to the movements of Mademoiselle’s little foot， which he was at that very time touching with his own under the piano. Mademoiselle Bourienne too was gazing at Princess Marya， and in her fine eyes， too， there was an expression of frightened joy and hope that was new to the princess.
“How she loves me！” thought Princess Marya. “How happy I am now and how happy I may be with such a friend and such a husband！ Can he possibly be my husband？” she thought， not daring to glance at his face， but still feeling his eyes fastened upon her.
When the party broke up after supper， Anatole kissed Princess Marya’s hand. She was herself at a loss to know how she had the hardihood， but she looked straight with her short-sighted eyes at the handsome face as it came close to her. After the princess， he bent over the hand of Mademoiselle Bourienne （it was a breach of etiquette， but he did everything with the same ease and simplicity） and Mademoiselle Bourienne crimsoned and glanced in dismay at the princess.
“Quelle délicatesse！” thought Princess Marya. “Can Amélie” （Mademoiselle’s name） “suppose I could be jealous of her， and fail to appreciate her tenderness and devotion to me？” She went up to Mademoiselle Bourienne and kissed her warmly. Anatole went to the little princess.
“No， no， no！ When your father writes me word that you are behaving well， I will give you my hand to kiss.” And shaking her little finger at him， she went smiling out of the room.