Page 416 - the-idiot

Exclamations arose on all sides.
‘Lizabetha Prokofievna! Lizabetha Prokofievna! Liza-
betha Prokofievna!’
‘Mother, this is disgraceful!’ cried Aglaya.
Mrs. Epanchin had approached Hippolyte and seized
him firmly by the arm, while her eyes, blazing with fury,
were fixed upon his face.
‘Do not distress yourself, Aglaya Ivanovitch,’ he answered
calmly; ‘your mother knows that one cannot strike a dying
man. I am ready to explain why I was laughing. I shall be
delighted if you will let me—‘
A violent fit of coughing, which lasted a full minute, pre-
vented him from finishing his sentence.
‘He is dying, yet he will not stop holding forth!’ cried
Lizabetha Prokofievna. She loosed her hold on his arm, al-
most terrified, as she saw him wiping the blood from his
lips. ‘Why do you talk? You ought to go home to bed.’
‘So I will,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘As soon as I get home
I will go to bed at once; and I know I shall be dead in a fort-
night; Botkine told me so himself last week. That is why I
should like to say a few farewell words, if you will let me.’
‘But you must be mad! It is ridiculous! You should take
care of yourself; what is the use of holding a conversation
now? Go home to bed, do!’ cried Mrs. Epanchin in horror.
‘When I do go to bed I shall never get up again,’ said Hip-
polyte, with a smile. ‘I meant to take to my bed yesterday
and stay there till I died, but as my legs can still carry me, I
put it off for two days, so as to come here with them to-day—
but I am very tired.’

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