Part 45 (1/2)
”A post-station, madame.”
”Why did you cross yourself, I should like to know?”
”The church, madame.”
The lady looked out of the window, and began slowly to cross herself, gazing with all her eyes at the great village church, in front of which the invalid's carriage was now pa.s.sing.
The two vehicles came to a stop together at the post-house. The sick woman's husband and the doctor dismounted from the barouche, and came to the coach.
”How are you feeling?” asked the doctor, taking her pulse.
”Well, my dear, aren't you fatigued?” asked the husband, in French.
”Wouldn't you like to go out?”
Matriosha, gathering up the bundles, squeezed herself into the corner, so as not to interfere with the conversation.
”No matter, it's all the same thing,” replied the invalid. ”I will not get out.”
The husband, after standing there a little while, went into the post-house.
Matriosha, jumping from the carriage, tiptoed across the muddy road, into the enclosure.
”If I am miserable, there is no reason why the rest of you should not have breakfast,” said the sick woman, smiling faintly to the doctor, who was standing by her window.
”It makes no difference to them how I am,” she remarked to herself as the doctor, turning from her with slow step, started to run up the steps of the station-house. ”They are well, and it's all the same to them. O my G.o.d!”
”How now, Eduard Ivanovitch,” said the husband, as he met the doctor, and rubbing his hands with a gay smile. ”I have ordered my travelling-case brought; what do you say to that?”
”That's worth while,” replied the doctor.
”Well now, how about _her_?” asked the husband with a sigh, lowering his voice and raising his brows.
”I have told you that she cannot reach Moscow, much less Italy, especially in such weather.”
”What is to be done, then? Oh! my G.o.d! my G.o.d!”
The husband covered his eyes with his hand.... ”Give it here,” he added, addressing his man, who came bringing the travelling-case.
”You'll have to stop somewhere on the route,” replied the doctor, shrugging his shoulders.
”But tell me, how can that be done?” rejoined the husband. ”I have done every thing to keep her from going: I have spoken to her of our means, and of our children whom we should have to leave behind, and of my business.
She would not hear a word. She has made her plans for living abroad, as though she were well. But if I should tell her what her real condition is, it would kill her.”
”Well, she is a dead woman now: you may as well know it, Vasili Dmitritch.
A person cannot live without lungs, and there is no way of making lungs grow again. It is melancholy, it is hard, but what is to be done about it?
It is my business and yours to make her last days as easy as possible. It is the confessor that is needed here.”
”Oh, my G.o.d! Now just perceive how I am situated, in speaking to her of her last will. Let come whatever may, yet I cannot speak of that. And yet you know how good she is.”