"The
story is simple enough," he continued, "and there is no reason why you
should not know it. The late Count Skariatine had two sons, of whom the
present Count was the younger. Ten years ago, when barely twenty, he
quarrelled with his father and elder brother, and they parted in anger. I
must say that he seems to have acted hastily, though the old gentleman's
views of life were eccentric, to say the least of it. For some reason or
other, the elder brother never married. I have heard it said that he was
crippled in childhood. Be that as it may, he was vindictive and spiteful
by nature, and prevented the quarrel from being forgotten. The younger
brother left the house with the clothes on his back, and steadily refused
to accept the small allowance offered him, and which was his by right. And
now the father and the eldest son are dead--they died suddenly of the
smallpox--and Doctor Grabofsky has come to inform the Count that he is the
heir. There you have the story in a nutshell."
"Then it is all true, after all!" cried Fischelowitz. "We all thought--"
"Thinking, when one knows nothing, is a dangerous and useless pastime,"
observed the Consul. "I will take a box of these cigarettes with me. They
are good."
"Thank you most obediently, Milostivy Gosudar!" exclaimed Fischelowitz,
bowing low. "I trust that the Gospodin Consul will honour me with his
patronage. I have a great variety of tobaccos, Kir, Basma, Samson, Dubec
Imperial, Swary--"
While Fischelowitz was recommending the productions of his Celebrated
Manufactory to the Consul, Grabofsky and the Count were walking together
up and down the smooth pavement outside.
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