prince would not cherish any hope: he made up his mind that Prince Andréy had been killed, and though he sent an official to Austria to seek for traces of his son, he ordered a monument from Moscow which he intended to erect in his own garden to his memory, and he told everybody that his son had been killed. He tried not to change his former way of life, but his strength failed him. He walked less, ate less, slept less, and became weaker every day. Princess Márya hoped. She prayed for her brother as living and was always awaiting news of his return.
VIII
“Dearest,” said the little princess after breakfast on the morning of the nineteenth March, and her downy little lip rose from old habit, but as sorrow was manifest in every smile, the sound of every word, and even every footstep in that house since the terrible news had come, so now the smile of the little princess—influenced by the general mood though without knowing its cause—was such as to remind one still more of the general sorrow.
“Dearest, I’m afraid this morning’s fruschtique —as Fóka the cook calls it—has disagreed with me.”
“What is the matter with you, my darling? You look pale. Oh, you are very pale!” said Princess Márya in alarm, running with her soft, ponderous steps up to her sister-in-law.
“Your excellency, should not Márya Bogdánovna be sent for?” said one of the maids who was present. (Márya Bogdánovna was a midwife from the neighboring town, who had been at Bald Hills for the last fortnight.)
“Oh yes,” assented Princess Márya, “perhaps that’s it. I’ll go. Courage, my angel.”