The little princess lay on the pillows, in a white cap. (The pains had just left her.) Black hair curled in strands near her inflamed, perspiring cheeks; her rosy, charming little mouth with a lip covered with fine black hairs was open, and she was smiling joyfully. Prince Andrew entered the room and stood before her, at the foot of the sofa on which she lay. Her shining eyes, looking childishly frightened and excited, fixed on him without changing their expression. "I love you all, I have done no harm to anyone, why am I suffering? help me," her expression said. She saw her husband, but did not understand the significance of his appearance now before her. Prince Andrew went round the sofa and kissed her on the forehead.

"My darling," he said: a word he had never spoken to her before. "God is merciful..." She looked at him inquiringly, with childish reproach.

"I expected help from you, and nothing, nothing, and you too!" her eyes said. She was not surprised that he had come; she did not understand that he had come. His arrival had no relation to her sufferings and their relief. The pangs began anew, and Marya Bogdanovna advised Prince Andrew to leave the room.

The accoucheur entered the room. Prince Andrew went out and, meeting Princess Mary, again went up to her. They began to speak in a whisper, but every minute the conversation died away. They waited and listened.

"Allez, mon ami," [Go, my friend,] said Princess Mary. Prince Andrew again went to his wife, and sat waiting in the next room. Some woman came out of her room with a frightened face and became confused upon seeing Prince Andrew. He covered his face with his hands and sat thus for several minutes. Pitiful, helplessly animal groans were heard from behind the door. Prince Andrew rose, went to the door, and wanted to open it. Someone was holding the door.

"You can't, you can't!" a frightened voice said from within. He began to pace the room. The cries ceased, a few more seconds passed. Suddenly a terrible cry—not her cry, she could not cry like that—resounded in the next room. Prince Andrew ran to the door; the cry ceased, the cry of a child was heard.

"Why have they brought a baby in there?" Prince Andrew thought in the first second. "A baby? What baby?.. Why is there a baby there? Or is it a baby that has been born?"

When he suddenly understood all the joyful significance of this cry, tears choked him, and leaning with both arms on the window sill, sobbing, he wept as children weep. The door opened. The doctor, with his shirt sleeves rolled up, without a coat, pale and with a trembling jaw, came out of the room. Prince Andrew turned to him, but the doctor looked at him distractedly and, without saying a word, passed by. A woman ran out and, seeing Prince Andrew, hesitated on the threshold. He entered his wife's room. She lay dead in the same position in which he had seen her five minutes before, and the same expression, despite the fixed eyes and the paleness of her cheeks, was on that charming, childish little face with its lip covered with fine black hairs.

"I love you all and have done no harm to anyone, and what have you done to me?" said her charming, pitiful, dead face. In the corner of the room something small and red grunted and squeaked in Marya Bogdanovna's trembling white hands.

Two hours after this, Prince Andrew entered his father's study with quiet steps. The old man already knew everything. He was standing close to the door, and as soon as it opened, the old man silently clasped his son's neck with his hard, senile hands, like a vise, and sobbed like a child.

Three days later the little princess was buried, and, bidding her farewell, Prince Andrew went up the steps of the coffin. And in the coffin there was the same face, though with closed eyes. "Ah, what have you done to me?" it still said, and Prince Andrew felt that something had torn away in his soul, that he was guilty of a fault he could neither mend nor forget. He could not weep. The old man also entered and kissed her little waxen hand, lying calmly and highly upon the other, and her face said to him: "Ah, what and why have you done this to me?" And the old man angrily turned away upon seeing this face.

Five days later the young prince Nikolai Andreevich was christened. The wet-nurse supported the swaddling clothes with her chin, while the priest with a goose feather smeared the wrinkled red little palms and soles of the boy.

His godfather, the grandfather, trembling for fear of dropping him, carried the infant around the battered tin font and handed him to the godmother, Princess Mary. Prince Andrew, dying of fear lest they drown the child, sat in another room, awaiting the conclusion of the sacrament. He looked joyfully at the baby when the nurse brought it out to him, and nodded approvingly when the nurse informed him that the little wax with hairs thrown into the font had not sunk, but had floated on the font.