“No, what has happened cannot alter—­it can only strengthen my resolve.  Let her do what flows from the state her mind is in.  If it is carrying on with the medical assistant, let her carry on with the medical assistant; that is her business.  I must do what my conscience demands of me.  And my conscience expects me to sacrifice my freedom.  My resolution to marry her, if only in form, and to follow wherever she may be sent, remains unalterable.”  Nekhludoff said all this to himself with vicious obstinacy as he left the hospital and walked with resolute steps towards the big gates of the prison.  He asked the warder on duty at the gate to inform the inspector that he wished to see Maslova.  The warder knew Nekhludoff, and told him of an important change that had taken place in the prison.  The old inspector had been discharged, and a new, very severe official appointed in his place.

“They are so strict nowadays, it’s just awful,” said the jailer.  “He is in here; they will let him know directly.”

The new inspector was in the prison and soon came to Nekhludoff.  He was a tall, angular man, with high cheek bones, morose, and very slow in his movements.

“Interviews are allowed in the visiting room on the appointed days,” he said, without looking at Nekhludoff.

“But I have a petition to the Emperor, which I want signed.”

“You can give it to me.”

“I must see the prisoner myself.  I was always allowed to before.”

“That was so, before,” said the inspector, with a furtive glance at Nekhludoff.

“I have a permission from the governor,” insisted Nekhludoff, and took out his pocket-book.

“Allow me,” said the inspector, taking the paper from Nekhludoff with his long, dry, white fingers, on the first of which was a gold ring, still without looking him in the eyes.  He read the paper slowly.  “Step into the office, please.”

This time the office was empty.  The inspector sat down by the table and began sorting some papers that lay on it, evidently intending to be present at the interview.

When Nekhludoff asked whether he might see the political prisoner, Doukhova, the inspector answered, shortly, that he could not.  “Interviews with political prisoners are not permitted,” he said, and again fixed his attention on his papers.  With a letter to Doukhova in his pocket, Nekhludoff felt as if he had committed some offence, and his plans had been discovered and frustrated.

When Maslova entered the room the inspector raised his head, and, without looking at either her or Nekhludoff, remarked:  “You may talk,” and went on sorting his papers.  Maslova had again the white jacket, petticoat and kerchief on.  When she came up to Nekhludoff and saw his cold, hard look, she blushed scarlet, and crumbling the hem of her jacket with her hand, she cast down her eyes.  Her confusion, so it seemed to Nekhludoff, confirmed the hospital doorkeeper’s words.