The Postmaster did not pursue him. He resolved to return home to his station, but before doing so he wished to see his poor Dounia once more. For that purpose, he returned to Minsky’s lodgings a couple of days afterwards, but the military servant told him roughly that his master received nobody, pushed him out of the ante-chamber and slammed the door in his face. The Postmaster stood waiting for a long time, then he walked away.
That same day, in the evening, he was walking along the Liteinaia, having been to a service at the Church of the Afflicted. Suddenly a stylish droshky flew past him, and the Postmaster recognized Minsky. The droshky stopped in front of a three-storeyed house, close to the entrance, and the Hussar ran up the steps. A happy thought flashed through the mind of the Postmaster. He returned, and, approaching the coachman:
“Whose horse is this, my friend?” asked he: “Doesn’t it belong to Minsky?”
“Exactly so,” replied the coachman: “what do you want?”
“Well, your master ordered me to carry a letter to his Dounia, and I have forgotten where his Dounia lives.”
“She lives here, on the second floor. But you are late with your letter, my friend; he is with her himself just now.”
“That doesn’t matter,” replied the Postmaster, with an inexplicable beating of the heart. “Thanks for your information, but I shall know how to manage my business.” And with these words he ascended the staircase.
The door was locked; he rang. There was a painful delay of several seconds. The key rattled, and the door was’ opened.
“Does Avdotia Simeonovna live here?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied a young female servant: “what do you want with her?”