Once again, in the evening when they lay down to sleep, they spoke about the event of the day with the most naïve excitement, just as children have the habit of chattering with each other about some strong impression they may have received. And they fell asleep in the middle of the conversation.
In the morning they woke up early. At their bedside stood the painter's stout cook; her usually healthy, rosy-coloured face was now white and leaden-looking.
"How is it you are still in bed?".she began at once in an excited voice, speaking with trembling lips. "The cholera has started here in the courtyard! The Lord has visited us...!" and she began suddenly to sob aloud.
"What nonsense! It can't be true!" cried Grigori In a scared voice.
"And I forgot again last night to carry out the slop-bucket!" said Matrona with contrition.
"I have come in to say good-bye to you, my dear friends," said the cook. "I have decided to leave, and go back to my village."
"Who is in for it?" asked Grigori, jumping out of bed.
"The accordion-player. He drank last evening some cold water from the pump, and in the night he was taken with dreadful cramps."
"The accordion-player?" muttered Grigori. It seemed to him quite incredible that any sort of illness could hurt that strong fellow. Yesterday only he crossed the yard as cheerful and as proud as a peacock.
"I shall just go and see what is going on," said Grischka, still smiling incredulously.