Nekhludoff listened to the hoarse old voice, looked at the stiff limbs, the swollen eyelids under the grey brows, at the old, clean-shaved, flabby jaw, supported by the collar of the military uniform, at the white cross that this man was so proud of, chiefly because he had gained it by exceptionally cruel and extensive slaughter, and knew that it was useless to reply to the old man or to explain the meaning of his own words to him.

He made another effort, and asked about the prisoner Shoustova, for whose release, as he had been informed that morning, orders were given.

“Shoustova—­Shoustova?  I cannot remember all their names, there are so many of them,” he said, as if reproaching them because there were so many.  He rang, and ordered the secretary to be called.  While waiting for the latter, he began persuading Nekhludoff to serve, saying that “honest noblemen,” counting himself among the number, “were particularly needed by the Tsar and—­the country,” he added, evidently only to round off his sentence.  “I am old, yet I am serving still, as well as my strength allows.”

The secretary, a dry, emaciated man, with restless, intelligent eyes, came in and reported that Shoustova was imprisoned in some queer, fortified place, and that he had received no orders concerning her.

“When we get the order we shall let her out the same day.  We do not keep them; we do not value their visits much,” said the General, with another attempt at a playful smile, which only distorted his old face.

Nekhludoff rose, trying to keep from expressing the mixed feelings of repugnance and pity which he felt towards this terrible old man.  The old man on his part considered that he should not be too severe on the thoughtless and evidently misguided son of his old comrade, and should not leave him without advice.

“Good-bye, my dear fellow; do not take it amiss.  It is my affection that makes me say it.  Do not keep company with such people as we have at our place here.  There are no innocent ones among them.  All these people are most immoral.  We know them,” he said, in a tone that admitted no possibility of doubt.  And he did not doubt, not because the thing was so, but because if it was not so, he would have to admit himself to be not a noble hero living out the last days of a good life, but a scoundrel, who sold, and still continued in his old age to sell, his conscience.

“Best of all, go and serve,” he continued; “the Tsar needs honest men—­and the country,” he added.  “Well, supposing I and the others refused to serve, as you are doing?  Who would be left?  Here we are, finding fault with the order of things, and yet not wishing to help the Government.”

With a deep sigh Nekhludoff made a low bow, shook the large, bony hand condescendingly stretched out to him and left the room.

The General shook his head reprovingly, and rubbing his back, he again went into the drawing-room where the artist was waiting for him.  He had already written down the answer given by the soul of Joan of Arc.  The General put on his pince-nez and read, “Will know one another by light emanating from their astral bodies.”