“General Ivolgin—retired and unfortunate. May I ask your Christian and generic names?”
“Lef Nicolaievitch.”
“So, so—the son of my old, I may say my childhood’s friend, Nicolai Petrovitch.”
“My father’s name was Nicolai Lvovitch.”
“Lvovitch,” repeated the general without the slightest haste, and with perfect confidence, just as though he had not committed himself the least in the world, but merely made a little slip of the tongue. He sat down, and taking the prince’s hand, drew him to a seat next to himself.
“I carried you in my arms as a baby,” he observed.
“Really?” asked the prince. “Why, it’s twenty years since my father died.”
“Yes, yes—twenty years and three months. We were educated together; I went straight into the army, and he—”
“My father went into the army, too. He was a sublieutenant in the Vasiliefsky regiment.”
“No, sir—in the Bielomirsky; he changed into the latter shortly before his death. I was at his bedside when he died, and gave him my blessing for eternity. Your mother—” The general paused, as though overcome with emotion.
“She died a few months later, from a cold,” said the prince.
“Oh, not cold—believe an old man—not from a cold, but from grief for her prince. Oh—your mother, your mother! heigh-ho! Youth—youth! Your father and I—old friends as we were—nearly murdered each other for her sake.”