and knocked the little pedestal-table beside him with his elbow. It stood in his way and hurt him; he flew into a passion with it, pressed upon it still harder in his anger, and overturned the pedestaltable. And in despair, and gasping for breath, he rolled back upon his back awaiting death immediately.
The guests were departing at that very time. Praskov'ya Thedorovna was showing them out. She heard the fall and went in.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing. I have let something fall unexpectedly."
She went out and brought a light. There he lay, breathing rapidly and heavily, like a man who had run a mile, looking at her with glazing eyes.
"What is the matter, Jean?"
"No—no—nothing. It drop—ped. —What can I say? She will not understand," he thought to himself.
And, indeed, she did not understand. She got up, lit his candle, and went out hastily. She had to take leave of a guest. When she came back he was lying on his back gazing at the ceiling.
"How are you? — worse, eh?"
"Yes."
She shook her head and sat down.
"I tell you what, Jean, hadn't we better send and see if Leshchetetsky is at home?"
That meant telling the famous doctor to call, and not sparing their money. He smiled bitterly and said no. After sitting a little longer she approached him and kissed him on
