ANNA PAVLOVNA’S soirée was in full swing. The spindles kept up their regular hum on all sides without pause. Except the aunt， beside whom was sitting no one but an elderly lady with a thin， careworn face， who seemed rather out of her element in this brilliant society， the company was broken up into three groups. In one of these， the more masculine， the centre was the abbé； in the other， the group of young people， the chief attractions were the beautiful Princess Ellen， Prince Vassily’s daughter， and the little Princess Bolkonsky， with her rosy prettiness， too plump for her years. In the third group were Mortemart and Anna Pavlovna.
The vicomte was a pretty young gentleman with soft features and manners， who obviously regarded himself as a celebrity， but with good breeding modestly allowed the company the benefit of his society. Anna Pavlovna unmistakably regarded him as the chief entertainment she was giving her guests. As a clever ma？tre d’h？tel serves as something superlatively good the piece of beef which no one would have cared to eat seeing it in the dirty kitchen， Anna Pavlovna that evening served up to her guests — first， the vicomte and then the abbé， as something superlatively subtle. In Mortemart’s group the talk turned at once on the execution of the duc d’Enghien. The vicomte said that the duc d’Enghien had been lost by his own magnanimity and that there were special reasons for Bonaparte’s bitterness against him.
“Ah， come！ Tell us about that， vicomte，” said Anna Pavlovna gleefully， feeling that the phrase had a peculiarly Louis Quinze note about it： “Contez-nous cela， vicomte.”
The vicomte bowed and smiled courteously in token of his readiness to obey. Anna Pavlovna made a circle round the vicomte and invited every one to hear his story.
“The vicomte was personally acquainted with his highness，” Anna Pavlovna whispered to one. “The vicomte tells a story perfectly，” she said to another. “How one sees the man of quality，” she said to a third， and the vicomte was presented to the company in the most elegant and advantageous light， like the roast-beef on the hot dish garnished with green parsley.
The vicomte was about to begin his narrative， and he smiled subtly.
“Come over here， chère Hélène，” said Anna Pavlovna to the young beauty who was sitting a little way off， the centre of another group.
Princess Ellen smiled. She got up with the same unchanging smile of the acknowledged beauty with which she had entered the drawing-room. Her white ball-dress adorned with ivy and moss rustled lightly； her white shoulders， glossy hair， and diamonds glittered， as she passed between the men who moved apart to make way for her. Not looking directly at any one， but smiling at every one， as it were courteously allowing to all the right to admire the beauty of her figure， her full shoulders， her bosom and back， which were extremely exposed in the mode of the day， she moved up to Anna Pavlovna， seeming to bring with her the brilliance of the ballroom. Ellen was so lovely that she was not merely free from the slightest shade of coquetry， she seemed on the contrary ashamed of the too evident， too violent and all-conquering influence of her beauty. She seemed to wish but to be unable to soften the effect of her beauty.
“What a beautiful woman！” every one said on seeing her. As though struck by something extraordinary， the vicomte shrugged his shoulders and dropped his eyes， when she seated herself near him and dazzled him too with the same unchanging smile.
“Madame， I doubt my abilities before such an audience，” he said， bowing with a smile.
The princess leaned her plump， bare arm on the table and did not find it necessary to say anything. She waited， smiling. During the vicomte’s story she sat upright， looking from time to time at her beautiful， plump arm， which lay with its line changed by pressure on the table， then at her still lovelier bosom， on which she set straight her diamond necklace. Several times she settled the folds of her gown and when the narrative made a sensation upon the audience， she glanced at Anna Pavlovna and at once assumed the expression she saw on the maid-of-honour’s face， then she relapsed again into her unvarying smile. After Ellen the little princess too moved away from the tea-table.
“Wait for me， I will take my work，” she said. “Come， what are you thinking of？” she said to Prince Ippolit. “Bring me my reticule.”
The little princess， smiling and talking to every one， at once effected a change of position， and settling down again， gaily smoothed out her skirts.
“Now I’m comfortable，” she said， and begging the vicomte to begin， she took up her work. Prince Ippolit brought her reticule， moved to her side， and bending close over her chair， sat beside her.
Le charmant Hippolyte struck every one as extraordinarily like this sister， and， still more， as being， in spite of the likeness， strikingly ugly. His features were like his sister’s， but in her， everything was radiant with joyous life， with the complacent， never-failing smile of youth and life and an extraordinary antique beauty of figure. The brother’s face on the contrary was clouded over by imbecility and invariably wore a look of aggressive fretfulness， while he was thin and feebly built. His eyes， his nose， his mouth — everything was， as it were， puckered up in one vacant， bored grimace， while his arms and legs always fell into the most grotesque attitudes.
“It is not a ghost story，” he said， sitting down by the princess and hurriedly fixing his eyeglass in his eye， as though without that instrument he could not begin to speak.
“Why， no， my dear fellow，” said the astonished vicomte， with a shrug.
“Because I detest ghost stories，” said Prince Ippolit in a tone which showed that he uttered the words before he was aware of their meaning.