This last consideration moved him.
"My dear Anna Mikhaylovna," said he with his usual familiarity and weariness of tone, "it is almost impossible for me to do what you ask; but to prove my devotion to you and how I respect your father's memory, I will do the impossible--your son shall be transferred to the Guards.
Here is my hand on it.

Are you satisfied ?" "My dear benefactor! This is what I expected from you--I knew your kindness!" He turned to go.
"Wait--just a word! When he has been transferred to the Guards..." she faltered.

"You are on good terms with Michael Ilarionovich Kutuzov...
recommend Boris to him as adjutant! Then I shall be at rest, and then..." Prince Vasili smiled.
"No, I won't promise that.

You don't know how Kutuzov is pestered since his appointment as Commander in Chief.

He told me himself that all the Moscow ladies have conspired to give him all their sons as adjutants." "No, but do promise! I won't let you go! My dear benefactor..." "Papa," said his beautiful daughter in the same tone as before, "we shall be late." "Well, au revoir! Good-by! You hear her ?" "Then tomorrow you will speak to the Emperor ?" "Certainly; but about Kutuzov, I don't promise." "Do promise, do promise, Vasili!" cried Anna Mikhaylovna as he went, with the smile of a coquettish girl, which at one time probably came naturally to her, but was now very ill-suited to her careworn face.
Apparently she had forgotten her age and by force of habit employed all the old feminine arts.