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"Not more stupid than you, madam," said the nine-year-old Petya,

with the air of an old brigadier.

The countess had been prepared by Anna Mikhaylovna's hints at

dinner. On retiring to her own room, she sat in an armchair, her

eyes fixed on a miniature portrait of her son on the lid of a

snuffbox, while the tears kept coming into her eyes. Anna

Mikhaylovna, with the letter, came on tiptoe to the countess'

door and paused.

"Don't come in," she said to the old count who was following her.

"Come later." And she went in, closing the door behind her.

The count put his ear to the keyhole and listened.

At first he heard the sound of indifferent voices, then Anna

Mikhaylovna's voice alone in a long speech, then a cry, then

silence, then both voices together with glad intonations, and

then footsteps. Anna Mikhaylovna opened the door. Her face wore

the proud expression of a surgeon who has just performed a

difficult operation and admits the public to appreciate his

skill.