Fyodor watched her carefully, the Countess Rostova with her flushed cheeks and melancholy gaze. She'd been sat at the side of Countess Bezukhova for an evening, making sparse conversation and seeming to draw further into herself as the evening went on. He fancied, having stared at her for so long, he'd learned her appearance by heart, but the truth of it was Fyodor had known it long before. Lovely Countess Rostova suffered a common malignancy, made no less tragic by its ubiquitous nature; she longed for her absent husband. A tiny sprout of envy threatened to sour his good mood; Fyodor stamped it down.
His musings were interrupted by harsh laughter bubbling up somewhere to his left. Fyodor did not turn to look, but he did catch a delighted, "She looks done in, poor thing. And who wouldn't be; ran herself ragged chasing after the Count."
A giggle followed. "Not happy to be caught, not that one."
"He would've been happy enough if she came with a fat purse," the first voice offered. "I happen to have it on good authority that she did not have as much as a kopeck to her name."
"She is rather pretty," opined the second, something wistful in her voice.
"Beauty doesn't put food on the table; so the Count learned. His mother will tell anyone willing to hear just how far beneath himself he married." Again, there was a malicious glee threading those words. "She grew up the poor relation."
A chill ran down his spine as understanding dawned. They were not discussing Countess Bezukhova. That much should have been obvious considering her husband gave not the least impression he thought her anything but perfection incarnate. From across the room, looking up at lengths, Countess Rostova's eyes met his own. They widened, then fell away. Her colour grew darker.
"The Count loves her, if nothing else," one of the gossips spoke as though to exonerate the unfortunate subjects of their discussion from the grave sin of having been born poor.
"Does he?" The question rankled. "Mind you, I've heard it said he prefers the company of Princess Bolkonskaya."
"That drab little creature?" A pause followed. "I cannot credit it. And I, for one, cannot believe she would encourage him in any event."
"Princess Drubestkaya believes he holds her friend in tender affection. I have never known her to be wrong about such things. But in any event, Countess Rostova has been living in the home of Count Bezukhov almost since the beginning of her marriage. We all know Count Rostov has been making his home in Moscow for nearly as long. Whatever else they might be, those two are certainly not happily married."
"Oh, how dreadful! Perhaps it can be mended?"
"I would not count on it. The Count will not approach his wife. All that is left for the poor thing is to find comfort in someone else's arms. Someone such as Prince Drubetskoy; they grew up together, you know."
"The things you say, Masha!" The furious whisper was a good deal quieter than their previous exchange. "The poor lamb is not the sort."
"Nonsense; she just hasn't realised her predicament yet. Mark my words, she will take a lover."
Disgusted with the talk, Fyodor found himself unable to linger in that spot any longer. Neither could he withstand the sight of Countess Rostova, unhappy as she was. He took himself off into the sparsely lit gardens for a breath of fresh air. But try as he might, his thoughts kept turning towards beautiful Sonya and her supposed plight. If indeed her husband had deserted her, then she was to be pitied. He had seen in her eyes the depth of feeling she carried for the feckless Count Rostov. But somehow Fyodor had doubted the man would ever wed her. He'd been relieved underneath his chagrin, when he'd learned of the wedding purely on the guess that the impertinent pup had finally seen the light.
But to have wed someone as wonderful as Sofia Alexandrovna with no intention of returning her affection seemed to Fyodor an impossible act of cruelty. Surely, not even someone as foolish as Nikolai Ilyich would exhibit such brutal ingratitude.
And yet, in all his months of observing Countess Rostova at the different venues where their paths crossed, never once had she been in the company of her husband. If they were, in fact, estranged, that would explain it.
Other men's unhappy wives had never counted for much with Fyodor. They were amusing and, occasionally, comforting, but not to be pitied or regarded with any interest beyond the very immediate goal of seduction. He was finding, however, in contemplating Countess Rostova, that the thought of some garish fop offering to soothe her wounded heart sickened him. The only comfort to be derived came from the knowledge that she would never succumb to such a ploy.
Or would she?
Fyodor peered at the well-lit ballroom from his current position. He could just about make out the form of Countess Rostova. She was standing at the side of a tall man whom it took him a moment to recognise as Prince Drubestkoy. They seemed to be carrying on a conversation, for he leaned towards her as she arched towards him. Envy returned with a vengeance, dragging up budding fear. Unhappy wives were easy prey. He should know, having encountered more than his fair share of the sort.
This particular unhappy wife ought to count not the least with him. She had chosen her husband despite all the warning signs along the way. If she was unhappy, she had only herself to blame. And yet, he could not tear his eyes away from Countess Rostova and his thoughts rebelled at the notion of leaving her to some other man's tender mercies when he could very well step into the breach, his talent for the like well known.
Uncertainty kept him still in the face of the Prince and the Countess parting ways at lengths.