Prince Andrey told the driver to stop， and asked a soldier in what battle they had been wounded.
“The day before yesterday on the Danube，” answered the soldier. Prince Andrey took out his purse and gave the soldier three gold pieces.
“For all，” he added， addressing the officer as he came up. “Get well， lads，” he said to the soldiers， “there’s a lot to do yet.”
“What news？” asked the officer， evidently anxious to get into conversation.
“Good news！ Forward！” he called to the driver， and galloped on.
It was quite dark when Prince Andrey rode into Br？nn， and saw himself surrounded by high houses， lighted shops， the lighted windows of houses， and street lamps， handsome carriages noisily rolling over the pavement， and all that atmosphere of a great town full of life， which is so attractive to a soldier after camp. In spite of the rapid drive and sleepless night， Prince Andrey felt even more alert， as he drove up to the palace， than he had on the previous evening. Only his eyes glittered with a feverish brilliance， and his ideas followed one another with extreme rapidity and clearness. He vividly pictured again all the details of the battle， not in confusion， but definitely， in condensed shape， as he meant to present them to the Emperor Francis. He vividly imagined the casual questions that might be put to him and the answers he would make to them. He imagined that he would be at once presented to the Emperor. But at the chief entrance of the palace an official ran out to meet him， and learning that he was a special messenger， led him to another entrance.
“Turning to the right out of the corridor， Euer Hochgeboren， you will find the adjutant on duty，” the official said to him. “He will conduct you to the minister of war.”
The adjutant on duty， meeting Prince Andrey， asked him to wait， and went into the war minister. Five minutes later the adjutant returned， and with marked courtesy， bowing and ushering Prince Andrey before him， he led him across the corridor to the private room of the war minister. The adjutant， by his elaborately formal courtesy， seemed to wish to guard himself from any attempt at familiarity on the part of the Russian adjutant. The joyous feeling of Prince Andrey was considerably damped as he approached the door of the minister’s room. He felt slighted， and the feeling of being slighted passed instantaneously without his being aware of it himself—into a feeling of disdain， which was quite uncalled for. His subtle brain at the same instant supplied him with the point of view from which he had the right to feel disdain both of the adjutant and the minister of war. “No doubt it seems to them a very simple matter to win victories， never having smelt powder！” he thought. His eyelids drooped disdainfully； he walked with peculiar deliberateness into the war minister’s room. This feeling was intensified when he saw the minister of war sitting at a big table， and for the first two minutes taking no notice of his entrance. The minister of war had his bald head， with grey curls on the temple， held low between two wax candles； he was reading some papers， and marking them with a pencil. He went on reading to the end， without raising his eyes at the opening of the door and the sound of footsteps.
“Take this and give it him，” said the minister of war to his adjutant， handing him the papers， and taking no notice of the Russian attaché.
Prince Andrey felt that either the minister of war took less interest in the doings of Kutuzov’s army than in any other subject demanding his attention， or that he wanted to make the Russian attaché feel this. “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.
