sometimes the old man relapsed into a state of coma, lasting several hours. then life seemed to have ebbed from him entirely. a clay-like pallor over-spread his face, he had the lips and open, glassy eyes of a corpse, and he scarcely breathed. then they sent post-haste for the doctor, who sprinkled him with camphor, gave him oxygen and produced artificial respiration. the old man slowly came to, rolling his eyes.

"another minute and it would have been death," the doctor would say in a deep, grave voice.

when the old man had at length recovered, vasena used to say to him: "lord! we were so frightened, we were so frightened! … we thought you were quite gone. yes, we did. for you know, you are not so young as to…."

ippolyte ippolytovich was silent and indifferent, only at moments, half-closing and screwing up his eyes, and straightening out his lips, he laughed:

"he-he! he-he!" then added, slyly: "i am dying, you say? he-he! he- he!"