boots, "what dost thou talk about? Make the sign of the cross! To ask the dead to a house-warming! What horror!"
"By I shall ask them," continued Adrian; "I shall ask them at once, for to-morrow. Pray come, my benefactors, come to feast with me to-morrow evening; I shall entertain you with what God has given me." So saying, the undertaker tumbled into bed, and soon began to snore.
It was still dark when Adrian was roused. The merchant Truhin's wife had died that very night, and a special messenger had been sent on horseback with this intelligence. The undertaker gave him a ten-copeck piece for a vodka,[1] dressed in haste, took a droshky, and drove to Rasgoulaï. The police were already stationed at the gates of the house where lay the defunct; tradespeople were going in and out, like ravens at their prey. The corpse lay on a table, yellow as wax, but not yet disfigured by decomposition. Relations, neighbours, and friends crowded around. All the windows stood open; candles were burning; priests were reading prayers. Adrian went up to Truhin's nephew, a young merchant in a fashionable coat, and assured him that the coffin, candles, pall, and other funeral furniture, would be delivered with all punctuality and without fail. The heir thanked him absently, saying that he would not bargain about the expense, but should trust implicitly to his conscience. The undertaker, as usual, swore that he
- ↑ A glass of spirits.—Tr.
