Smart
Helen was a smart woman. Perhaps not in the "fresh-out-of-grammar-school-or-university" way that young men were but she was smart. Life smart, Anatole called it. She was practical and assertive, always pro-active and searching for – and finding – a solution to any situation. Much of her way was very feminine – coquetry and games with men's hearts mostly, but it got her where she needed to be. She knew little of business and didn't care much for most politics. But she did know her society and how to get where she wanted in it. In that sense, she was a very smart woman.
99
"Count to a hundred."
Helene tipped her head to the side and looked at the young officer before her in slight amazement. "Why?"
Theodore shook his head. "Just…trust me. Close your eyes and count to 100."
"That's a very long ways to count, Monsieur Dolokhov. I demand to know why I must," she insisted, making a face of displeasure at his secretiveness.
He just smirked at her. "I have another birthday present for you."
Helene sighed, closed her eyes, and began to count. She – or his patience – didn't make it to 100. Theodore kissed her just as she reached 99.
Chief
As a child, Anatole loved to play "American Indians." Especially with the older boys and strangely enough in the winter. So when Theodore Dolokhov was around, Anatole would beg him to come with his friends and play. Hippolyte would usually be chief of one tribe, Theodore of the other. Helene would stand mournfully on the front porch, not understanding why she wasn't allowed to play with the boys. But her mother insisted she maintain "proper" behavior. Helene watched and pouted. She would make as good a chief of snowball throwers as her older brother. If she could just play too.
Agents
Helene had learned to identify the agents of various happenings, feelings and fortunes that would come upon her at an early age, back as a young girl, wearing short skirts. Her father's frown and her mother's slightly trembling hands were an agent of an oncoming quarrel. Hippolyte coming home later than usual meant a new lady introduced to the household.
In her teenage years, at the ball where she met Theodore Dolokhov, she learned that butterflies in her stomach was the agent of romance.
A letter from Anatole's regiment coming a week later than expected became the agent of tragedy.
Shoe
Anatole watched his older sister pick out shoes to match with her newest ball gown. At twenty-one, Helene was at the perfect age to be married and all of her, and their father's, efforts were thrown at securing a brilliant match.
"Why did you take me and not Mother?" Anatole complained.
"I'd think that after spending so many years in Paris you would make more fashion sense than Mother."
"What of these?" He pointed to a pair. Helene shook her head. "Those, then?"
"How do you expect me to dance in those?"
Anatole sighed, shrugging. "You should have brought Mother."