“What?”
“It is the truth. One evening after dinner he stumbled as he stepped out of his carriage. He fell, and struck his head on the curb, and died immediately. He was seventy-three years of age, and had a red face, and white hair; he deluged himself with scent, and was always smiling like a child. Peter Zakkaritch recalled my interview with him, and said, ‘ you foretold his death.’”
The prince rose from his seat, and Lebedeff, surprised to see his guest preparing to go so soon, remarked: “You are not interested?” in a respectful tone.
“I am not very well, and my head aches. Doubtless the effect of the journey,” replied the prince, frowning.
“You should go into the country,” said Lebedeff timidly.
The prince seemed to be considering the suggestion.
“You see, I am going into the coun
