The sounds from the bedroom grew more threatening.
“Ivàn Stepànych, Missis is angry,” said the servant, suddenly entering.
“Sh—sh! All right, all right, I won’t,” whispered the frightened husband. “I’m very sorry. I won’t....”
The deacon got up to go home.
“Vasìli Ivànych! Where are you going? Listen, my dear fellow.” He took the deacon mysteriously into a corner.
“What should I listen to? That’s all nonsense!”
“No, no. I’ll send for some more. One of the boys’ll run for it quick. She won’t know. Secretly; d’you see? There’s no difficulty. Own money.... Just see there,” and the choir-master pulled a rouble note out of his waistcoat pocket.
“Only do as I tell you! It’s all according to law.... D’you see?”
The deacon nodded his head and laid down his hat. At this the choir-master clapped him on the shoulder and winked significantly.
“Pètia!” he whispered, going into the ante-room, and shaking a slumbering treble. “Pètia, make haste! Like a flash of lightning, you know—to the publichouse. Off with you!”