“‘Well, now I can die.’

“She said good-bye, shut her eyes, and half an hour later gave up her soul to God.  She was fully conscious up to the last moment.  Anyway when they gave her milk instead of water she whispered softly: 

“‘Why are you giving me milk instead of water?’

“So that is what happened.  She died as she predicted.”

The examining magistrate paused, gave a sigh and said: 

“Come, explain why she died.  I assure you on my honour, this is not invented, it’s a fact.”

The doctor looked at the sky meditatively.

“You ought to have had an inquest on her,” he said.

“Why?”

“Why, to find out the cause of her death.  She didn’t die because she had predicted it.  She poisoned herself most probably.”

The examining magistrate turned quickly, facing the doctor, and screwing up his eyes, asked: 

“And from what do you conclude that she poisoned herself?”

“I don’t conclude it, but I assume it.  Was she on good terms with her husband?”

“H’m, not altogether.  There had been misunderstandings soon after their marriage.  There were unfortunate circumstances.  She had found her husband on one occasion with a lady.  She soon forgave him however.”

“And which came first, her husband’s infidelity or her idea of dying?”

The examining magistrate looked attentively at the doctor as though he were trying to imagine why he put that question.

“Excuse me,” he said, not quite immediately.  “Let me try and remember.”  The examining magistrate took off his hat and rubbed his forehead.  “Yes, yes . . . it was very shortly after that incident that she began talking of death.  Yes, yes.”

“Well, there, do you see? . . .  In all probability it was at that time that she made up her mind to poison herself, but, as most likely she did not want to kill her child also, she put it off till after her confinement.”

“Not likely, not likely! . . . it’s impossible.  She forgave him at the time.”

“That she forgave it quickly means that she had something bad in her mind.  Young wives do not forgive quickly.”

The examining magistrate gave a forced smile, and, to conceal his too noticeable agitation, began lighting a cigarette.

“Not likely, not likely,” he went on.  “No notion of anything of the sort being possible ever entered into my head. . . .  And besides . . . he was not so much to blame as it seems. . . .  He was unfaithful to her in rather a queer way, with no desire to be; he came home at night somewhat elevated, wanted to make love to somebody, his wife was in an interesting condition . . . then he came across a lady who had come to stay for three days—­damnation take her—­ an empty-headed creature, silly and not good-looking.  It couldn’t be reckoned as an infidelity.  His wife looked at it in that way herself and soon . . . forgave it.  Nothing more was said about it. . . .”