Prochazka.—Who would buy them? They will doubtless go to the junk pile.
Dub.—Those books must be weighed and sold for old paper. And that porcelain . . .
Cizek.—How many pieces?
Dub.—Two trays and something with them . . . they might be set down for twenty.
Prochazka.—Well, they are worth something!
Cizek.—What about these satin curtains?
Prochazka.—The devil! But they are fine! (Digging around among them.) What material! My girl could have a waist made of that—and there would still be a nice piece left. If by any chance, nobody were looking, and something could disappear, this is just what I would want. At least half of it—it might be cut in two!
Dub.—And I would choose something else. That clock in the corner, perhaps. What about you, Mr. Cizek?
Cizek.—I would rather have some silver.
Dub.—Oh the dickens, The notary was very careful about all the gold and silver. He had an inventory made in his own presence. Not a handle must be missing from anything. But some old trinket or other . . . who would know the difference?
Cizek.—And when will the notary return from town?
Dub.—Most likely in the evening.
Cizek.—In the evening—and we are slaving away as though he were sitting here watching us now.
Prochazka.—On my faith, you are right! (Throws aside a picture which he held in his hand.)
Dub.—I am almost faint from it all. (Stretches out his arms, yawning.)
Cizek.—Mr. Prochazka, call that lackey—tell him to bring us something.
Prochazka.—That’s right! (Opens the door, calling.) Hey lackey! (Closes the door again.) Yes, that lackey, you can wait for him! It seems just like the day after a funeral. We had better jump up, Mr. Cizek, and go after him ourselves. Let him bring a bottle of Bordeaux, and perhaps a deer roast with it.
Dub.—Go away with your venison! We have already had some today.
Prochazka.—Then what will you have?
