“Oh, I’m going to Baron Vorobioff to-day.  I could not get an audience with him yesterday.”

“Do you know why he is Baron Vorobioff?” said the advocate, noticing the slightly ironical stress that Nekhludoff put on this foreign title, followed by so very Russian a surname.

“That was because the Emperor Paul rewarded the grandfather—­I think he was one of the Court footmen—­by giving him this title.  He managed to please him in some way, so he made him a baron.  ‘It’s my wish, so don’t gainsay me!’ And so there’s a Baron Vorobioff, and very proud of the title.  He is a dreadful old humbug.”

“Well, I’m going to see him,” said Nekhludoff.

“That’s good; we can go together.  I shall give you a lift.”

As they were going to start, a footman met Nekhludoff in the ante-room, and handed him a note from Mariette: 

Pour vous faire plaisir, f’ai agi tout a fait contre mes principes et j’ai intercede aupres de mon mari pour votre protegee.  Il se trouve que cette personne pout etre relaxee immediatement.  Mon mari a ecrit au commandant.  Venez donc disinterestedly.  Je vous attends.

M.

“Just fancy!” said Nekhludoff to the advocate.  “Is this not dreadful?  A woman whom they are keeping in solitary confinement for seven months turns out to be quite innocent, and only a word was needed to get her released.”

“That’s always so.  Well, anyhow, you have succeeded in getting what you wanted.”

“Yes, but this success grieves me.  Just think what must be going on there.  Why have they been keeping her?”

“Oh, it’s best not to look too deeply into it.  Well, then, I shall give you a lift, if I may,” said the advocate, as they left the house, and a fine carriage that the advocate had hired drove up to the door.  “It’s Baron Vorobioff you are going to see?”

The advocate gave the driver his directions, and the two good horses quickly brought Nekhludoff to the house in which the Baron lived.  The Baron was at home.  A young official in uniform, with a long, thin neck, a much protruding Adam’s apple, and an extremely light walk, and two ladies were in the first room.

“Your name, please?” the young man with the Adam’s apple asked, stepping with extreme lightness and grace across from the ladies to Nekhludoff.

Nekhludoff gave his name.

“The Baron was just mentioning you,” said the young man, the Baron’s adjutant, and went out through an inner door.  He returned, leading a weeping lady dressed in mourning.  With her bony fingers the lady was trying to pull her tangled veil over her face in order to hide her tears.

“Come in, please,” said the young man to Nekhludoff, lightly stepping up to the door of the study and holding it open.  When Nekhludoff came in, he saw before him a thick-set man of medium height, with short hair, in a frock coat, who was sitting in an armchair opposite a large writing-table, and looking gaily in front of himself.  The kindly, rosy red face, striking by its contrast with the white hair, moustaches, and beard, turned towards Nekhludoff with a friendly smile.