I have a great variety of tobaccos, Kir, Basma, Samson, Dubec Imperial, Swary--" While Fischelowitz was recommending the productions of his Celebrated Manufactory to the Consul, Grabofsky and the Count were walking together up and down the smooth pavement outside.
"A great change has taken place in your family," Grabofsky was saying.
"Had anything less extraordinary occurred, I should have written to you instead of coming in person.

Your brother is dead, Count Skariatine." "Dead!" exclaimed the Count, who had no recollection of the letter abstracted from his pocket by the Cossack.

It had reached him after the weekly attack had begun, and the memory of it was gone with that of so many other occurrences.
"Dead," repeated the lawyer sharply, as though he would have made a nail of the word to drive it into the coffin.
"And how many children has he left ?" inquired the Count.
"He died unmarried." "So that I--" "You are the lawful heir." "Unless my father marries again." The colour rose in the Count's lean cheeks.
"That is impossible." "Why ?" "Because he is dead, too." "Then--" "You are Count Skariatine, and I have the honour to offer you my services at this important juncture." The Count breathed hard.

The shock, overtaking him when he was in his normal condition, was tremendous.

The colour came and went rapidly in his features, and he caught his breath, leaning heavily upon the little lawyer, who watched his face with some anxiety.