Ramodanofsky read Sophia’s thoughts.
“Gracious lady,” he said, making a strong effort to speak, “I know that Zénaïde, as the heiress of my estates, should be your ward, her hand at your disposal; but it is my desire that she shall wed Philippe de Brousson, one of her mother’s countrymen. He has signified his willingness to accept her hand without any dower but my wife’s estate in France. In her name, I surrender to the czar the lands and estates in Russia, asking only your permission that she shall marry as I desire.”
It had cost him dear to speak, and he fell back with a gasp. Sophia was not without sympathy, and she was also keen enough to see the advantage of the sudden accession of wealth in the impoverished treasury. She laid her hand kindly on Zénaïde’s bowed head.
“Rest in peace, Feodor Sergheievitch,” she said; “I will grant your request. The Vicomte is my friend, and Zénaïde shall be his wife.”
“I thank you,” the dying man said faintly, and his head fell back.
The physician bent over him and administered a restorative, and he opened his eyes again; but this time they sought only his daughter, who was clinging to his arm and weeping.
“Farewell, Zénaïde,” he said, in a voice of strange tenderness, “found so late and lost so soon! Weep not for me, my child; life has had little sweetness, and perhaps it is best so.”
Mademoiselle Eudoxie was kneeling at the foot of his couch and praying, and he looked at her and smiled.
“The end is near,” he murmured faintly, looking calmly at us in farewell; “the end—of a—broken life— My soul—”
He spoke no more, and a moment later, Prince Galitsyn leaned over him and made the sign of the cross on his white forehead. The stern spirit had passed quietly into eternity.