‘No, he is not the first,’ said Napraxine, with a curt bitterness. ‘He is not the first, and it was not play; he only played to have an excuse. He thought of your name, perhaps of mine; he did not wish the world to know he died because you laughed at him.’
‘Laughed! I used to laugh; why not? He was amusing before he grew tragical. I rebuked him yesterday, for he deserved it. Everyone scolds boys. It is good for them. No one supposes——’ her tone was impatient and contemptuous, but her lips quivered a little; she was sorry that the boy was dead, though she would not say so. It hurt her, though it annoyed her more.
‘Did he—did he suffer?’ she asked, abruptly.
Napraxine took out of the breast-pocket of his coat a sheet of note-paper, and gave it her.
‘He died instantly, if you mean that,’ he answered. ‘He knew enough to aim well. They brought me that note; he had written it last night, I think.’
In the broad, rude handwriting of the young Seliedoff there was written:—
‘Pardonnez-moi, mon cousin: je l’adore, et elle se moque de moi; je ne peux pas vivre, mais j’aurai soin que le monde n’en sache rien. Soignez ma pauvre mère. Tout à vous de cœur
‘Boris Fédorovitch.’
She read it with a mist before her eyes, and gave it back to him without a word.