"olga!" cried the sick man, without turning round, and feeling near him the swift movement of his wife, he pushed her away with an impatient movement of his hand, and added, "not you! my daughter olga!"

"olga! go, my child, papa is calling you," cried the general's wife in a soft voice, in french, to the little girl, who was standing undecidedly in the center of the room.

"can you not drop your foreign phrases?" angrily interrupted the general. "this is not a drawing-room! you might drop it, from a sense of decency."

his voice became shrill, and made the child shudder and begin to cry. she went to him timidly.

the general looked at her with an expression of pain. he drew her toward him with his left hand, raising the right to bless her.

"in the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit!" he whispered, making the sign of the cross over her. "god guard you from evil, from every bad influence. . . . be kind . . . honest . . . most of all, be honest! never tell lies. god guard you from falsehood, from lying, even more than from sorrow!"

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."

he turned his eyes toward his wife. the doctor unwillingly began his unpleasant task. he was a man of fine feeling, and although he had no very high opinion of the general's wife, still she was a woman. and a beautiful woman. he would have preferred that she should learn from someone else how many of the pleasures of life were slipping away from her, in virtue of the new will. but there was nothing for it but to do as he was ordered. it was always hard to oppose iuri pavlovitch; now it was quite impossible.

olga vseslavovna listened to the reading of the will with complete composure. she sat motionless, leaning back in an armchair, with downcast eyes, and only showing her emotion when her husband was no longer able to stifle a groan. then she turned toward him her pale, beautiful face, with evident signs of heartfelt sympathy, and was even rising to come to his assistance. the sick man impatiently refused her services, significantly turning his eyes toward the doctor, who was reading his last will and testament, as though he would say: "listen! listen! it concerns you."

it did concern her, without a doubt. general nazimoff's wife learned that, instead of an income of a hundred thousand a year, which she had had a right to expect, she could count only on a sum sufficient to keep her from poverty; what in her opinion was a mere pittance.

the doctor finished reading, coughing to hide his confusion, and slowly folded the document.

"you have heard?" asked the general, in a faint, convulsive voice.

"i have heard, my friend," quietly answered his wife.

"you have nothing to say?"

"what can i say? you have a right to dispose of what belongs to you. . . . but . . . still i . . ."

"still you what?" sharply asked her husband.

"still, i hope, my friend, that this is not your last will. . . ."

general nazimoff turned, and even made an effort to raise himself on his elbow.

"god willing, you will recover. perhaps you will decide more than once to make other dispositions of your property," calmly continued his wife.

the sick man fell back on the pillows.

"you are mistaken. even if i do not die, you will not be able to deceive me again. this is my last will!" he replied convulsively.

and with trembling hand he gave the doctor a bunch of keys.

"there is the dispatch box. please open it, and put the will in."

the doctor obeyed his wish, without looking at olga vseslavovna. she, on her part, did not look at him. shrugging her shoulders at her husband's last words, she remained motionless, noticing nothing except his sufferings. his sufferings, it seemed, tortured her.

meanwhile the dying man followed the doctor with anxious eyes, and as soon as the latter closed the large traveling dispatch box he stretched out his hand to him for the keys.

"so long as i am alive, i will keep them!" he murmured, putting the bunch of keys away in his pocket. "and when i am dead, i intrust them to you, edouard vicentevitch. take care of them, as a last service to me!" and he turned his face once more to the wall.

"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 paylovitch 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."

the general's wife bowed her head.

"what hurts me most," she whispered, with a bitter smile, bending close to the young doctor, and leaning heavily on his arm, "what hurts me most, is not the money. i am not avaricious. but why should he take my child away from me? why should he pass over her own mother, and intrust her to her half-sister? a woman whom i do not know, who has not distinguished herself by any services or good actions, so far as i know. i shall not submit. i shall contest the will. the law must support the right of the mother. what do you think, doctor?"

the doctor hastily assented, though, to tell the truth, he was not thinking of anything at the moment, except the strange manner in which the general's wife, while talking, pressed close to her companion.

at that moment a bell rang, and the general's loud voice was heard:

"doctor! edouard vicentevitch!"

"coming!" answered the doctor.

and leaving olga vseslavovna at the threshold of her room, he ran quickly to the sick man.

"a vigorous voice—for a dying man! he shouts as he used to at the manoeuvers!" thought the general's wife.

and her handsome face at once grew dark with the hate which stole over it. this was only a passing expression, however; it rapidly gave place to sorrow, when she saw the manservant coming from the sick man.

"what is the matter with your master, yakov? is he worse?"

"no, madam. god has been gracious. he told me to push the box nearer him, and ordered edouard vicentevitch to open it. he wants to send some telegram or other."

"thank god, he is not worse. yakov, i am going to send a telegram to the station myself, in a few minutes, by my coachman. you can give him the general's telegram, too."

"very well, madam."

"and another thing. i shall not go to bed. if there is any change in your master's condition, yakov, come and knock at my door at once. i beg of you, tell me the very moment anything happens. here is something for you, yakov;—you have grown thin, waiting upon your master!"

"i thank you most humbly, your excellency. we must not grudge our exertions," the man answered, putting a note of considerable value in his pocket.