The general’s wife bowed her head.

“What hurts me most,” she whispered, with a bitter smile, bending close to the young doctor, and leaning heavily on his arm, “what hurts me most, is not the money.  I am not avaricious.  But why should he take my child away from me?  Why should he pass over her own mother, and intrust her to her half-sister?  A woman whom I do not know, who has not distinguished herself by any services or good actions, so far as I know.  I shall not submit.  I shall contest the will.  The law must support the right of the mother.  What do you think, doctor?”

The doctor hastily assented, though, to tell the truth, he was not thinking of anything at the moment, except the strange manner in which the general’s wife, while talking, pressed close to her companion.

At that moment a bell rang, and the general’s loud voice was heard: 

“Doctor!  Edouard Vicentevitch!”

“Coming!” answered the doctor.

And leaving Olga Vseslavovna at the threshold of her room, he ran quickly to the sick man.

“A vigorous voice—­for a dying man!  He shouts as he used to at the manoeuvers!” thought the general’s wife.

And her handsome face at once grew dark with the hate which stole over it.  This was only a passing expression, however; it rapidly gave place to sorrow, when she saw the manservant coming from the sick man.

“What is the matter with your master, Yakov?  Is he worse?”

“No, madam.  God has been gracious.  He told me to push the box nearer him, and ordered Edouard Vicentevitch to open it.  He wants to send some telegram or other.”

“Thank God, he is not worse.  Yakov, I am going to send a telegram to the station myself, in a few minutes, by my coachman.  You can give him the general’s telegram, too.”

“Very well, madam.”

“And another thing.  I shall not go to bed.  If there is any change in your master’s condition, Yakov, come and knock at my door at once.  I beg of you, tell me the very moment anything happens.  Here is something for you, Yakov;—­you have grown thin, waiting upon your master!”

“I thank you most humbly, your excellency.  We must not grudge our exertions,” the man answered, putting a note of considerable value in his pocket.

III

Contrary to expectation, the night passed quietly enough.  Emotion and weariness claimed their own; Olga Vseslavovna, in spite of all her efforts, fell into a sleep toward morning; and when she awoke, she started in dismay, noticing that the sun had already climbed high in the sky, and was pouring into her room.

Her maid, a deft Viennese, who had remained with this accommodating mistress for five years, quieted her by telling her that the master was better, that he was still asleep, not having slept for the greater part of the night.

“The doctor and Yakov were busy with him most of the night,” she explained.  “They were sorting all sorts of papers; some of them they tied up, writing something on them; others they tore up, or threw into the fire.  The grate is full of ashes.  Yakov told me.”