Tears filled the dying man’s eyes.  Little Olga shuddered from head to foot; she feared her father, and at the same time was so sorry for him.  But pity got the upper hand.  She clung to him, wetting him with her tears.  Her father raised his hand, wishing to make the sign of the cross once more over the little head which lay on his breast, but could not complete the gesture.  His hand fell heavily, his face was once more contorted with pain; he turned to those who stood near him, evidently avoiding meeting his wife’s eyes, and whispered: 

“Take her away.  It is enough.  Christ be with her!” And for a moment he collected strength to place his hand on the child’s head.

The doctor took the little girl by the hand, but her mother moved quickly toward her.

“Kiss him!  Kiss papa’s hand!” she whispered, “bid him good-by!”

The general’s wife sobbed, and covered her face with her handkerchief, with the grand gesture of a stage queen.  The sick man did not see this.  At the sound of her voice he frowned and closed his eyes tight, evidently trying not to listen.  The doctor led the little girl away to another room and gave her to her governess.

When he came back to the sick man the general, lying on the sofa, still in the same position, and without looking at his wife who stood beside his pillow, said to her: 

“I expect my poor daughter Anna, who has suffered so much injustice through you....  I have asked her to forgive me.  I shall pray her to be a mother to her little sister....  I have appointed her the child’s guardian.  She is good and honest ... she will teach the child no evil.  And this will be best for you also.  You are provided for.  You will find out from the new will.  You could not have had any profit from being her guardian.  If Anna does not consent to take little Olga to live with her, and to educate her with her own children, as I have asked her, Olga will be sent to a school.  You will prefer liberty to your daughter; it will be pleasanter for you.  Is it not so?”

Contempt and bitter irony were perceptible in his voice.  His wife did not utter a syllable.  She remained so quiet that it might have been thought she did not even hear him, but for the convulsive movement of her lips, and of the fingers of her tightly clasped hands.

The doctor once more made a movement to withdraw discreetly, but the general’s voice stopped him.  “Edouard Vicentevitch?  Is he here?”

“I am here, your excellency,” answered the doctor, bending over the sick man.  “Would not your excellency prefer to be carried to the bed?  It will be more comfortable lying down.”

“More comfortable to die?” sharply interrupted the general.  “Why do you drivel?  You know I detest beds and blankets.  Drop it!  Here, take this,” and he gave him a sheet of crested paper folded in four, which was lying beside him.  “Read it, please.  Aloud! so that she may know.”