scratched himself behind the ear, and thrusting aside the thought of
the delightful evening at cards that awaited him, set out to go to the
sick man.

General Iuri Pavlovitch Nasimoff was far gone. Even the most
compassionate doctors did not give him many days to live, when he
finally decided to destroy the will which he had made long ago, not in
St. Petersburg, but in the provincial city where he had played the
Tsar for so many years. The general had come to the capital for a
time, and had lain down--to rise no more.

This was the opinion of the physicians, and of most of those about
him; the sick man himself was unwilling to admit it. He was a
stalwart-hearted and until recently a stalwart-bodied old man, tall,
striking, with an energetic face, and a piercing, masterful glance,
hard to forget, even if you saw him only once.

He was lying on the sofa, in a richly furnished hotel suite,
consisting of three of the best rooms. He received the lawyer gayly
enough. He himself explained the circumstances to him, though every
now and then compelled to stop by a paroxysm of pain, with difficulty
repressing the groans which almost escaped him, in spite of all his
efforts. During these heavy moments, Ivan Feodorovitch raised his eyes
buried in fat to the sick man's face, and his plump little features
were convulsed in sympathy with the sufferer's pain. As soon as the
courageous old man, fighting hard with the paroxysms of pain, had got
the better of them, taking his hands from his contorted face, and
drawing a painful breath, he began anew to explain his will.
Lobnitchenko dropped his eyes again and became all attention.