The whole day was spent in travelling from Rasgulai to the Nikitski Grates and back again. Towards evening everything was settled, and he started home on foot after discharging his hired isvoshchik. It was a moonlight night, and the undertaker got safely to the Nikitski Grates. At Yosnessenia he met our acquaintance, Yurko, who, recognising the undertaker, wished him good-night. It was late. The undertaker was close to his house when he thought he saw some one approach the gates, open the wicket, and go in.
"What does it mean?" thought Adrian. "Who can be wanting me again? Is it a burglar, or can my foolish girls have lovers coming after them? There is no telling," and the undertaker was on the point of calling his friend Yurko to his assistance, when some one else came up to the wicket and was about to enter, but seeing the master of the house run towards him, he stopped, and took off his three cornered hat. His face seemed familiar to Adrian, but in his hurry he had not been able to see it properly.
"You want me?" said Adrian, out of breath. "Walk in, if you please."
"Don't stand on ceremony, my friend," replied the other, in a hollow voice, "go first, and show your guest the way."
Adrian had no time to waste on formality. The gate was open, and he went up to the steps followed by the other. Adrian heard people walking about in his rooms.
"What the devil is this?" he wondered, and he hastened to see. But now his legs seemed to be giving way. The room was full of corpses. The moon, shining through the windows, lit up their yellow and blue faces, sunken mouths, dim, half-closed eyes, and protruding noses. To his horror, Adrian recognised in them people he had buried, and in the guest who came in with him, the brigadier who had been interred during a pouring rain. They all, ladies and gentlemen, surrounded the undertaker, bowing and greeting him affably, except one poor fellow lately buried gratis, who, ashamed of his rags, kept at a distance in a corner of the room. The others were all decently clad; the female corpses in caps and ribbons, the soldiers and officials in their uniforms, but with unshaven beards; and the tradespeople in their best caftans.
"Prohoroff," said the brigadier, speaking on behalf of all the company, "we have all risen to profit by your invitation. Only those have stopped at home who were quite unable to do otherwise; who have crumbled away and have nothing left but bare bones. Even among those there was one who could not resist—he wanted so much to come."
At this moment a diminutive skeleton pushed his way through the crowd and approached Adrian. His death's head grinned affably at the undertaker. Shreds of green and red cloth and of rotten linen hung on him as on a pole; while the bones of his feet clattered inside his heavy boots like pestles in mortars.
"You do not recognise me, Prohoroff?" said the skeleton. "Don't you remember the retired, sergeant in the guards, Peter Petrovitch Kurilkin, him to whom you in the year 1799 sold your first coffin, and of deal instead of oak?" With these words the corpse stretched out his long arms to embrace him. But Adrian collecting his strength, shrieked, and pushed him away. Peter Petrovitch staggered, fell over, and crumbled to pieces. There was a murmur of indignation among the company of corpses. All stood up for the honour of their companion, threatening and abusing Adrian till the poor man, deafened by their shrieks and quite overcome, lost his senses and fell unconscious among the bones of the retired sergeant of the guard.