"Perhaps it is all in vain," I said.
And so it was. My number came along the last, and I was free. Titoff could hardly believe my luck and he laughed at me gloomily.
"It seems really that God is with you."
I did not answer, but I was unspeakably happy. My freedom meant everything to me—everything that oppressed my soul. And above all, it meant freedom from my dear father-in-law.
At home Olga's joy was great. She wept and laughed, the dear one; praised and caressed me as if I had killed a bear.
"God be praised," she said; "now I can die in peace."
I poked fun at her, but at the bottom of my heart I felt badly, for I knew that she believed in her death—a ruinous belief, which destroys the life force in man.
Three days later her travail began. For two long days she suffered horrible agony, and on the third day it was ended, after giving birth to a still-born child—ended as she had believed, my dear, sweet one.
I do not remember the burial, for I was as if blind and deaf for some time afterward. It was Titoff who woke me. I was at Olga's grave, and I can see him now as he stood before me and looked into my face, and said:
"So, Matvei, it is for the second time that we meet near the dead. Here our friendship was born. Here it should be strengthened anew."