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Fyodor’s store of good grace had reached its nadir almost as soon as he clapped eyes on Pierre. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” he questioned rather boorishly, in no mood to put a better face on the whole affair when he was fairly certain he had the Count’s measure without needing to hear a single word. Staring into the man’s face, he pushed down any hint of remorse for his conduct, for Pierre looked at him with a mixture of pity and understanding which made his hair stand on end.
“I am come at my wife’s behest,” Pierre admitted with an awkward air, his solid frame shifting uneasily in the seat he’d been provided. Whether that had to do with the smallness of the furniture or the errand he’d been entrusted with, it was not clear. Perhaps a bit of both. “And for my own ease of mind as well,” he added after a brief moment, which had Fyodor’s mood drop even further.
“Very well, say your piece.” There; a chance to test his powers of prediction against reality. Fyodor dropped into his own seat, adopting an uncaring attitude in spite of the rousing effect the morning visit created. The faster Pierre was about those complaints which surely came from his Countess, the quicker he’d leave. That at least remained worth encouraging.
“I’ll be blunt,” Pierre started. Thank the heavens for small mercies. “I imagine you’ve heard whispers of Count Rostov and his wife, about their marriage that is.” Seeing no reason to prevaricate, Fyodor gave a sharp nod. “Then you know how matters stand.”
“I imagine,” he answered, treading cautiously, “I have a fairly good guess.” Rumours could not substitute the truth even if they occasionally underscored it. “And yet, what has that to do with this?”
Pierre smiled. Another man might have imbued that stretch of lips with anything from vitriol to forgiveness. Count Bezukhov’s smile remained entirely devoid of any such hints however. “You are good at comforting other men’s wives. Very good, some might say. But this one you should leave be.”
He had every intention to. Still, to admit such before this man, with nary a fight, would be beyond lowering. “That so, Count? And why would I do that? Seems a waste of my talents.” Summoning his pluck, he further added, “I do not fear Rostov.” Sonya’s melancholy would suit her just fine if she were a widow as well.
Pierre frowned. “Perhaps you ought to.” He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t think I’m unaware what passed between you and Nikolai back in the day.” He held his hands up in a pacifying gesture when Fyodor bristled. “You cost him a fortune, quite literally. If you cost him his reputation, his very respectability, do you imagine you may walk away unscathed?”
Laughed bubbled in his throat. “Ah, the respectability of a man without honour.” Fyodor snorted. “Whatever rumours feed the mill, they are not of my making and can have nothing to say against my conduct. Perhaps, Count, you had best make your speech to that worthless blackguard you call a brother-in-law. He stands in need of remembering his manners.”
Unperturbed, Pierre leaned back in his seat, apparently warming up to the subject despite Fyodor’s blatant resistance. “Have you considered what is to become of poor Sonya if you pursue her?” That bit of familiarity earned the guest a glare. “Whether successful or otherwise, she will be branded,” Pierre trailed off. “You know just as well as I. Are you truly comfortable opening her up to that possibility?”
“There are worse things in this world than a soiled reputation.” He bit his tongue against pointing out Pierre himself had married a woman whose reputation had been ground to dust before being redeemed by such vows as he made her. “If Rostov does not care for the poor woman, he cannot blame her.”
“He can. He will,” Pierre argued. “Do not make her an object of disgrace for so mean a thing as revenge.” That just went to show how little the man knew him. Fyodor’s revenge had been both prompt and stinging, delivered within mere days.
“Rostov is the fool, making his wife an object of disgrace far more than anything I could conjure up.” He shook his head. “Suppose you are right, Count. He doesn’t need my aid with that; he’s been doing a fine job of it himself.”
Poor Sofia Alexandrovna; a husband who seemed to care for all the wrong things. It quite struck Fyodor that her marriage, while less tumultuous than Pierre’s first one, held the same ingredients for disaster. After all, hadn’t the Count as much as admitted his brother-in-law thought only too little of the woman? The only question then was a matter of when. Sooner or later, those two would come apart. And yet he could not fathom it. To hold warm, loving Sofia Alexandrovna’s heart in the palm of his hand and not to be moved by her devotion; was Rostov carved out of stone perchance? If it were him; well, if it were him, he supposed Sofia Alexandrovna would be rather unhappy, as she did not hold him in too much affection, whatever gratitude his latest actions might have earned him. Best not to consider those facts too closely.
“Doubtless, Nikolai and Sonya will sort matters out.” Pierre’s feeble attempt neither put him at ease, nor troubled him. The one thing Fyodor was coming to understand, however, had to do with how those nearest to the woman saw the situation.
“What affair is that of mine?” he snapped, bound by his own desire to do the honourable thing and leave her be while all of his desires were bent on pointing out the many potential chances the situation afforded him. Perhaps he ought to take himself off to Moscow. “I trust you’ve said all you wished to.” Pierre nodded uncertainly. “Good. Then tell Rostov he had best have some care for his Countess or I will get serious about winning her from his hands as well.”
Thet ought to spur even such a thick-headed imbecile as Rostov into action.