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