“Yes, in a moment.  Tell them I am coming immediately.”

The Sister of Mercy went out.

“See how she loved her husband.  And why was he so unjust to her at the last?” she involuntarily reproached the dead general.

Meanwhile the general’s wife had risen hastily, folded the will as best she could, in four, in eight folds, and crushing it together in her hand, went quietly from the room, which now filled her with dread.

She was so confused that she did not even think of looking for her pocket; she simply held her packet tight, and let her hand hang down, hiding it in the folds of her wide dressing-gown.  There seemed to be so many people in the room which a moment before was empty, that she felt cowed.  Her heart beat pitilessly, and the blood throbbed so violently in her temples that she could not understand what was said to her.  They were asking her if they might place the body in the coffin, which had already been placed beside it.  Her silence was taken as consent.  The skilful undertakers easily lifted the already rigid body.

Olga Vseslavovna stood at the head of the dead general.  Among the crowd of undertakers and servants, she suddenly saw coming toward her, with outstretched hand, and with tears of compassion in her eyes, the Princess Ryadski, the same aristocratic kinswoman who had already taken little Olga to stay with her.

“I must shake hands with her!  And that horrible packet is in my hand!  Where shall I put it?  How can I hide it?” Before her eyes gleamed the brilliantly lighted, ashen forehead of the dead man, helplessly bent backward and sideways, as the whole body was suspended in the hands of the undertakers, over its last abode.

A saving thought!

The general’s wife bent gently over the dead body.  She gently supported the head of the corpse, gently laid it on the satin cushion, straightened the frills which surrounded the hard pillow, and, unperceived, left under it the twisted roll of paper.

“It will be safer there!” The thought flashed through her mind.  “He wanted to keep his will himself; well, keep it to eternity, now!  What more can you ask?”

And it even seemed ludicrous to her.  She could hardly restrain a smile of triumph, changing it into a sad smile of grief, in reply to her kinswoman’s condolences.  The coffin was already lying in state on the bier; it was covered with brocade and flowers.  The princess, as kinswoman of the late general, bent low, and first laid on the dead body the wreath she had brought with her.

“The poor sufferer has entered into rest,” she whispered, shaking her head.  “Will the funeral service be soon?  Where will it be?  Where is Olga Vseslavovna?”

“She will be here in a moment,” the Sister of Mercy whispered, deeply affected; “she has gone to fix herself.  They will begin the funeral service in a few minutes, and she is all in disorder.  She is in great grief.  Will you not take a seat?”