"To-morrow is Sunday. I hope, Pierre, that first of all you will go to mass," said his wife, kneeling in front of a trunk and opening it. "That is so, it is Sunday! We shall by all means all of us go to the Cathedral of the Assumption. Thus will our return begin. O Lord! When I think of the day when I was for the last time in the Cathedral of the Assumption! Do you remember, Natásha? But that is another matter." And the head of the family rose quickly from the chair, on which he had just seated himself. "Now we must settle down!" And without doing anything, he kept walking from one room to another. "Well, shall we drink tea? Or are you tired, and do you want to rest?" "Yes, yes," replied his wife, taking something out from the trunk. "You wanted to go to the bath-house, did you not?" "Yes--in my day it was near Stone Bridge. Serézha, go and find out whether there is still a bath-house near Stone Bridge. This room here Serézha and I shall occupy. Serézha! Will you be comfortable here?" But Serézha had gone to find out about the bath-house. "No, that will not do," he continued. "You will not have a straight passage to the drawing-room. What do you think, Natásha?" "Calm yourself, Pierre, everything will come out all right," Natásha said, from another room, where peasants were bringing in things. But Pierre was still under the influence of that ecstatic mood which the arrival had evoked in him. "Look there,--don't mix up Serézha's things! You have thrown his snow-shoes down in the drawing-room." And he himself picked them up and with great care, as though the whole future order of the quarters depended upon it, leaned them against the door-post and tried to make them stand there. But the snow-shoes did not stick to it, and, the moment Pierre walked away from them, fell with a racket across the door. Natálya Nikoláevna frowned and shuddered, but, seeing the cause of the fall, she said: "Sónya, darling, pick them up!" "Pick them up, darling," repeated the husband, "and I will go to the landlord, or else you will never get done. I must talk things over with him." "You had better send for him, Pierre. Why should you trouble yourself?" Pierre assented. "Sónya, bring him here, what do you call him? M. Cavalier, if you please. Tell him that we want to speak about everything." "Chevalier, papa," said Sónya, ready to go out. Natálya Nikoláevna, who was giving her commands in a soft voice, and was softly stepping from room to room, now with a box, now with a pipe, now with a pillow, imperceptibly finding places for a mountain of baggage, in passing Sónya, had time to whisper to her: "Do not go yourself, but send a man!"