"Well, what? speak up!"
"If we would steal his fur cloak. His life and death depend upon that cloak. He is a very peculiar man—"
"Well, then, see to it that his cloak is stolen away!"
The hoary veteran could not be trusted with a better job. Ever since the revolution he had no more important task on hand. Oh, well, in those days—but wherefore speak of his deeds then? No one would believe him now.
In the meantime the sick lady was restless on her couch amidst silken pillows, shuddering whenever she heard the noise of approaching wheels. She half leaned on her arms listening, burying her emaciated hands in her long black hair which flowed down over her white night gown.
She is provided with all that her longing can desire, yet she is the poorest being in the world, for she lacks health, and something else—love.
That love that burned within her for husband is naught to the love that warms the heart, the filial love for parents, and she never felt as cold as now.
Nothing does her any good; the voice of the man whom she loved is painful to her; it were better he were not walking at her side and would leave her to herself; the bed is hard; in vain it is made of silk and soft feathers, in vain do the servants fix it and repeatedly put it in order.
How well would it be if she could lie at home beneath the paternal roof, however poor that home, beside the capacious stove, and she could hear at the open window the voice of the evening bells of Majornok, and if her cold feet were covered with the famous fur cloak of her father.
Of this she spoke, of this she dreamed last night and behold—in the morning, fate had fulfilled her wish, when she awoke, over the beautiful red quilt, there lay spread out her old acquaintance the fur cloak.