“I knew a man
who received extreme unction seven times.”
The second princess came out of the
sick-room with tearful eyes, and sat down beside Doctor Lorrain, who was
sitting in a graceful pose under the portrait of Catherine, with his elbow on
the table.
“Very fine,”
said the doctor in reply to a question about the weather; “very fine, princess,
and besides, at Moscow, one might suppose oneself in the country.”
“Might one
not?” said the princess, sighing. “So may he have something to drink?” Lorrain
thought a moment.
“He has taken
his medicine?”
“Yes.”
The doctor looked at his memoranda.
“Take a glass
of boiled water and put in a pinch” (he showed with his delicate fingers what
was meant by a pinch) “of cream of tartar.”
“There has
never been a case,” said the German doctor to the adjutant, speaking broken
Russian, “of recovery after having a third stroke.”
“And what a
vigorous man he was!” said the adjutant. “And to whom will his great wealth
go?” he added in a whisper.
“Candidates
will be found,” the German replied, smiling. Every one looked round again at
the door; it creaked, and the second princess having made the drink according
to Lorrain’s direction, carried it into the sick-room. The German doctor went
up to Lorrain.
“Can it drag
on till to-morrow morning?” asked the German, with a vile French accent.
Lorrain, with compressed lips and a stern
face, moved his finger before his nose to express a negative.
“To-night, not
later,” he said softly, and with a decorous smile of satisfaction at being able
to understand and to express the exact position of the sick man, he walked
away.
Meanwhile Prince Vassily had opened the
door of the princess’s room.
It was half dark in
the room; there were only two lamps burning before the holy pictures, and there
was a sweet perfume of incense and flowers. The whole room was furnished with
miniature furniture, little sideboards, small bookcases, and small tables.
Behind a screen could be seen the white coverings of a high feather-bed. A
little dog barked.
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