smiling proudly and joyfully to his son
IT was long since Rostov had derived such enjoyment from music as on that day. But as soon as Natasha had finished her barcarolle, the reality forced itself upon his mind again. Saying nothing, he went out, and went down stairs to his own room. A quarter of an hour later, the old prince came in, good-humoured and satisfied from his club. Nikolay heard him come in, and went in to him.
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“Well, had a good time?” said Ilya Andreivitch, smiling proudly and joyfully to his son. Nikolay tried to say “Yes,” but could not; he was on the point of sobbing. The count was lighting his pipe, and did not notice his son’s condition.
“Ugh, it’s inevitable!” thought Nikolay, for the first and last time. And all at once, as though he were asking for the carriage to drive into town, he said to his father in the most casual tone, that made him feel vile to himself:
“Papa, I have come to you on a matter of business I was almost forgetting. I want some money.”
“You don’t say so?” said his father, who happened to be in particularly good spirits. “I told you that we shouldn’t be having any. Do you want a large sum?”
“Very large,” said Nikolay, flushing and smiling a stupid, careless smile, for which long after he could not forgive himself. “I have lost a little at cards, that is, a good deal, really, a great deal, forty-three thousand.”
“What! To whom? … You’re joking!” cried the count, flushing, as old people flush, an apoplectic red over his neck and the back of his head.
“I have promised to pay it to-morrow,” said Nikolay.
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