Barefooted girls were stealing silently along the corridor, scurrying back and forth from the entresol to the maids' room.
At times a voice was heard from upstairs:
"What about the mustard plasters? Are you asleep there?" And a girl would dash out of the maids' room.
At last heavy footsteps sounded on the staircase, and the regimental surgeon entered the dining room, a tall, broad-shouldered man, with firm, ruddy cheeks, the picture of health.
His voice was sonorous, his gait steady, his eyes clear, gay and frank, his lips full and fresh.
In spite of his fifty years he was a thoroughly fast liver and expected to see many years pass before he would give up drinking and carousing.
He wore a showy summer suit, and his spotless pique coat was trimmed with white buttons bearing arms.
On entering he made a clicking sound with his lips and tongue.
"Girls!" he shouted merrily, standing on the threshold. "Bring us some vodka and something to eat."
"Well, doctor, how is he?" the old lady asked, her voice full of anxiety.
"The Lord's mercy is infinite, Arina Petrovna," answered the physician.
"What do you mean? Then he——"
"Just so.
He will last another two or three days, and then—good-bye!"
The doctor made an expressive gesture with his hand and hummed:
"Head over heels, head over heels he will fall."
"How's that? Doctors treated him—and now all of a sudden——"
"What doctors?"
"The zemstvo doctor and one from the town used to come here."
"Fine doctors! If they'd given him a good bleeding, they'd have saved him."
"So nothing at all can be done?"
"Well, I said, 'The Lord's mercy is great,' and I can add nothing to that."
"But perhaps it will work?"
"What will work?"
"I mean—the mustard plasters."
"Perhaps."
A woman in a black dress and black shawl brought in a tray holding a decanter of vodka, a dish of sausages and a dish of caviar.
The doctor helped himself to the vodka, held the glass to the light and smacked his tongue.
"Your health, mother," he said to the old lady, and gulped the liquid.
"Drink in good health, my dear sir."
"This is the cause of Pavel Vladimirych dying in the prime of his life, this vodka," said the doctor, grimacing comfortably and spearing a piece of sausage with his fork.
"Yes, it's the ruin of many a man."
"That's because not everyone can stand it.
But I can, and I shall have another glass.
Your health, madam."
"Drink, drink. Nothing can happen to you."
"Nothing. My lungs and kidneys and liver and spleen are in excellent condition.
By the way," he turned to the woman in black who stood at the door, listening to the conversation, "What will you have for dinner to-day?"
"Hash and beef cutlets and chicken for roast," she answered, smiling somewhat sourly.
"Have you any smoked fish?"
"We have, sir. We have white sturgeon and stellated sturgeon, plenty of it."
"Then have a cold soup with sturgeon for our dinner, and pick out a fat bit of sturgeon, you hear me? What is your name? Ulita?"
"Yes, sir, people call me Ulita."
"Well, then, hurry up, friend Ulita, hurry up."
Ulita left the room, and for a while oppressive silence reigned.
Then Arina Petrovna rose from her seat and made sure Ulita was not eavesdropping.
"Andrey Osipych, have you spoken to him yet about the orphans?" she asked the doctor.
"Yes, I did."
"Well?"
"There was no change.