He turned his eyes toward his wife. The doctor unwillingly began his unpleasant task. He was a man of fine feeling, and although he had no very high opinion of the general's wife, still she was a woman. And a beautiful woman. He would have preferred that she should learn from someone else how many of the pleasures of life were slipping away from her, in virtue of the new will. But there was nothing for it but to do as he was ordered. It was always hard to oppose Iuri Pavlovitch; now it was quite impossible. Olga Vseslavovna listened to the reading of the will with complete composure. She sat motionless, leaning back in an armchair, with downcast eyes, and only showing her emotion when her husband was no longer able to stifle a groan. Then she turned toward him her pale, beautiful face, with evident signs of heartfelt sympathy, and was even rising to come to his assistance. The sick man impatiently refused her services, significantly turning his eyes toward the doctor, who was reading his last will and testament, as though he would say: "Listen! Listen! It concerns you." It did concern her, without a doubt. General Nazimoff's wife learned that, instead of an income of a hundred thousand a year, which she had had a right to expect, she could count only on a sum sufficient to keep her from poverty; what in her opinion was a mere pittance. The doctor finished reading, coughing to hide his confusion, and slowly folded the document. "You have heard?" asked the general, in a faint, convulsive voice. "I have heard, my friend," quietly answered his wife. "You have nothing to say?" "What can I say? You have a right to dispose of what belongs to you.... But ... still I...." "Still you what?" sharply asked her husband. "Still, I hope, my friend, that this is not your last will...." General Nazimoff turned, and even made an effort to raise himself on his elbow. "God willing, you will recover. Perhaps you will decide more than once to make other dispositions of your property," calmly continued his wife. The sick man fell back on the pillows. "You are mistaken. Even if I do not die, you will not be able to deceive me again. This is my last will!" he replied convulsively. And with trembling hand he gave the doctor a bunch of keys. "There is the dispatch box. Please open it, and put the will in." The doctor obeyed his wish, without looking at Olga Vseslavovna. She, on her part, did not look at him. Shrugging her shoulders at her husband's last words, she remained motionless, noticing nothing except his sufferings. His sufferings, it seemed, tortured her. Meanwhile the dying man followed the doctor with anxious eyes, and as soon as the latter closed the large traveling dispatch box he stretched out his hand to him for the keys.