CHAPTER II
THE DEATH OF MADAM PETUKHOV
CLAVIDIA IVANOVNA PETUKHOV was lying on her back with one arm under her head. She was wearing a glaring yellow boudoir cap which belonged to the days when ladies were just beginning to dance the tango.
There was a triumphant look on her face, but it expressed absolutely nothing. She was staring up at the ceiling.
'Mother,' said Hippolyte in a hushed voice.
His mother-in-law began to move her lips, but instead of the familiar trumpet-blast he heard such a low, pathetic moan that his heart began to ache. A tear unexpectedly rolled down his cheek.
'Mother,' he repeated, 'what's the matter with you?'
But there was no reply. The old woman closed her eyes and turned over on her side.
Madam Kuznetsov tiptoed into the room, took Hippolyte by the hand, and led him away like a boy being dragged off to have his face washed.
'She's gone to sleep and the doctor said she wasn't to be disturbed. So just run to the chemist—here's the prescription—and find out how much an ice-bag costs.'
Hippolyte did what she told him to do, for he felt he was his superior in these matters.
It was a long way to the chemist's and it was almost dark in the street, but in the last rays of the sun he could just see Bezenchuk leaning against his gate munching his supper of bread and onion. A little farther on the three Nymphs were licking their spoons and eating some porridge out of one pot. When they caught sight of Hippolyte they drew themselves up
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