Khobótoff and the postmaster exchanged confused glances, staggered to the door, and went into the hall. Andréi Yéfimitch seized the phial of bromide of potassium, and flung it after them, breaking it upon the threshold.
"Take yourselves to the devil!" he cried, running after them into the hall. "To the devil!"
After his visitors had gone he lay on the sofa, trembling as if in fever, and repeated—
"Stupid idiots! Dull fools!"
When he calmed down, the first thought that entered his head was that poor Mikhail Averyanitch must now be terribly ashamed and wretched, and that the scene that had passed was something very terrible. Nothing of the kind had ever happened before. What had become of his intellect and tact? Where were now his understanding of the world and his philosophical indifference?
All night the doctor was kept awake by feelings of shame and vexation. At nine o'clock next morning, he went to the post office and apologised to the postmaster.
"Do not refer to what happened!" said the postmaster, with a sigh. Touched by Andréi Yéfimitch's conduct, he pressed his hands warmly. "No man should trouble over such trifles.... Lubiakin!" he roared so loudly that the clerks and visitors trembled. "Bring a chair!... And you just wait!" he cried to a peasant woman, who held a registered letter through the grating. "Don't you see that I am engaged? ... We will forget all that," he continued tenderly, turning to Andréi Yéfimitch. "Sit down, my old friend!"
He stroked his eyebrows silently for a minute, and continued:
"It never entered my head to take offence. Illness is a very strange thing, I understand that. Yesterday your fit frightened both the doctor and myself, and we talked of you for a long time. My dear friend, why will you not pay more attention to your complaint? Do you think you can go on living in this way? Forgive the plain speaking of a friend." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "But you live among hopeless surroundings—closeness, uncleanliness, no one to look after you, nothing to take for your ailment.... My dear friend, both I and the doctor implore you with all our hearts—listen to our advice—go into the hospital. There you will get wholesome food, care and treatment. Yevgéniï Feódoritch—although, between ourselves, de mauvais ton—is a capable man, and you can fully rely upon him. He gave me his word that he would take care of you."
Andréi Yéfimitch was touched by the sincere concern of his friend, and the tears that trickled down the postmaster's cheeks.