The general did not deign even to consider for any length of time Matrena’s delirium. He said to his daughter, who shook with sobs on the floor, “Rise, Natacha Feodorovna.” And Feodor’s daughter understood that her father never would believe in her guilt. She drew herself up towards him and kissed his hands like a happy slave.
At this moment repeated blows shook the veranda door. Matrena, the watch-dog, anxious to die after Feodor’s reproach, but still at her post, ran toward what she believed to be a new danger. But she recognized Koupriane’s voice, which called on her to open. She let him in herself.
“What is it?” she implored.
“Well, he is dead.”
A cry answered him. Natacha had heard.
“But who—who—who?” questioned Matrena breathlessly.
Koupriane went over to Feodor and grasped his hands.
“General,” he said, “there was a man who had sworn your ruin and who was made an instrument by your enemies. We have just killed that man.”
“Do I know him?” demanded Feodor.
“He is one of your friends, you have treated him like a son.”