“But that’s a matter of complete indifference to me,” thought he. The minister of war put the other remaining papers together, making their edges level, and lifted his head. He had an intellectual and characteristic head. But the instant he turned to Prince Andrey, the shrewd and determined expression of the war minister’s face changed in a manner evidently conscious and habitual. On his face was left the stupid smile—hypocritical, and not disguising its hypocrisy—of a man who receives many petitioners, one after another.

“From General—Field Marshal Kutuzov?” he queried. “Good news, I hope? Has there been an engagement with Mortier? A victory? It was high time!”

He took the despatch, which was addressed to him, and began to read it with a mournful expression.

“Ah! My God! my God! Schmidt!” he said in German. “What a calamity! what a calamity!” Skimming through the despatch, he laid it on the table and glanced at Prince Andrey, visibly meditating on something.

“Ah, what a calamity! So the action, you say, was a decisive one?” (“Mortier was not taken, however,” he reflected.) “Very glad you have brought good news, though the death of Schmidt is a costly price for the victory. His majesty will certainly wish to see you, but not to-day. I thank you; you must need repose. To-morrow, be at the levée after the review. But I will let you know.”

The stupid smile, which had disappeared while he was talking, reappeared on the war minister’s face.

“Au revoir, I thank you indeed. His majesty the Emperor will most likely wish to see you,” he repeated, and he bowed his head.

As Prince Andrey left the palace, he felt that all the interest and happiness that had been given him by this victory had been left behind by him now in the indifferent hands of the minister and the formal adjutant. The whole tenor of his thoughts had instantaneously changed. The battle figured in his mind as a remote, far-away memory.