"A great change has taken place in your family," Grabofsky was saying.
"Had anything less extraordinary occurred, I should have written to you
instead of coming in person. Your brother is dead, Count Skariatine."
"Dead!" exclaimed the Count, who had no recollection of the letter
abstracted from his pocket by the Cossack. It had reached him after the
weekly attack had begun, and the memory of it was gone with that of so
many other occurrences.
"Dead," repeated the lawyer sharply, as though he would have made a nail
of the word to drive it into the coffin.
"And how many children has he left?" inquired the Count.
"He died unmarried."
"So that I--"
"You are the lawful heir."
"Unless my father marries again." The colour rose in the Count's lean
cheeks.
"That is impossible."
"Why?"
"Because he is dead, too."
"Then--"
"You are Count Skariatine, and I have the honour to offer you my services
at this important juncture."
The Count breathed hard. The shock, overtaking him when he was in his
normal condition, was tremendous. The colour came and went rapidly in his
features, and he caught his breath, leaning heavily upon the little
lawyer, who watched his face with some anxiety. Akulina's remark about the
Count's madness had made him more careful than he would otherwise have
been in his manner of breaking the news.
"I am not well," said the Count in a low voice. "To-day is Wednesday--I am
never well on Wednesdays."
"To-day is Thursday," answered Grabofsky.
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