The sun had been shining for sometime upon the bed on which the undertaker lay, when he at last opened his eyes and saw the servant lighting the samovar. With horror he recalled all the incidents of the previous day. Triuchin, the brigadier, and the sergeant, Kurilkin, passed dimly before his imagination. He waited in silence for the servant to speak and tell him what had occurred during the night.
"How you have slept, Adrian Prohorovitch!" said Aksima, handing him his dressing-gown. "Your neighbour the tailor called, also the watchman, to say that to-day was Turko's namesday; but you were so fast asleep that we did not disturb you."
"Did anyone come from the late Triuhina?"
"The late? Is she dead, then?"
"What a fool! Didn't you help me yesterday to make arrangements for her funeral?"
"Oh, my batiushka! [little father] are you mad, or are you still suffering from last night's drink? You were feasting all day at the German's. You came home drunk, threw yourself on the bed, and and have slept till now, when the bells have stopped ringing for Mass."
"Really!" exclaimed the undertaker, delighted at the explanation.
"Of course," replied the servant.
"Well, if that is the case, let us have tea quickly, and call my daughters."