“And now, leave me alone!  The pain is less.  Perhaps I shall go to sleep.  Leave me!”

“My friend!  Permit me to remain near you,” the general’s wife began, bending tenderly over her husband.

“Go!” he cried sharply.  “Leave me in peace, I tell you!”

She rose, trembling.  The doctor hastily offered her his arm.  She left the room, leaning heavily on him, and once more covering her face with her handkerchief, in tragic style.

“Be calm, your excellency!” whispered the doctor sympathetically, only half conscious of what he was saying.

“These rooms have been prepared for you.  You also need to rest, after such a long journey.”

“Oh, I am not thinking about myself.  I am so sorry for him.  Poor, poor, senseless creature.  How much I have suffered at his hands.  He was always so suspicious, so hard to get on with.  And whims and fantasies without end.  You know, doctor, I have sometimes even thought he was not in full possession of his faculties.”

“Hm!” murmured the doctor, coughing in confusion.

“Take this strange change of his will, for instance,” the general’s wife continued, not waiting for a clearer expression of sympathy.  “Take his manner toward me.  And for what reason?”

“Yes, it is very sad,” murmured the doctor.

“Tell me, doctor, does he expect his son and daughter?”

“Only his daughter, Anna Iurievna.  She promised to come, with her oldest children.  A telegram came yesterday.  We have been expecting her all day.”

“What is the cause of this sudden tenderness?  They have not seen each other for ten years.  Does he expect her husband, too?  His son-in-law, the pedagogue?” contemptuously asked the general’s wife.

“No!  How could he come?  He could not leave his service.  And his son, too, Peter Iurevitch, he cannot come at once.  He is on duty, in Transcaspia.  It is a long way.”

“Yes, it is a long way!” assented the general’s wife, evidently busy with other thoughts.  “But tell me, Edouard Vicentevitch, this new will, has it been written long?”

“It was drawn up only to-day.  The draft was prepared last week, but the general kept putting it off.  But when his pains began this morning....”

“Is it the end?  Is it dangerous?” interrupted Olga Vseslavovna.

“Very—­a very bad sign.  When they began, Iuri Pavlovitch sent at once for the lawyer.  He was still here when you arrived.”

“Yes.  And the old will, which he made before, has been destroyed?”

“I do not know for certain.  But I think not.  Oh, no, I forgot.  The general was going to send a telegram.”

“Yes? to send a telegram?”

The general’s wife shrugged her shoulders, sadly shook her head, and added: 

“He is so changeable! so changeable!  But I think it is all the same.  According to law, only the last will is valid?”

“Yes, without doubt; the last.”