Guards, Piotr Petróvitch Kurilkin, the same for whom thou soldest thy first coffin, in the year 1799—and one of pine too, for one of oak!" So saying, the corpse extended his bony arms towards him; but Adrian, mustering all his strength, cried out, and pushed him from him. Piotr Petróvitch tottered, fell, and went to pieces.
A murmur of indignation was heard amongst the dead; they stood up for the honour of their fellow, threatening and upbraiding Adrian; and the poor host, deafened by their cries, and almost pressed to death, losing his presence of mind, fell across the bones of the retired sergeant of the Guards, and remained unconscious.
The sun-light had long been streaming across the bed on which the undertaker was sleeping. At last he opened his eyes, and saw before him the maid, blowing at the charcoal of the samovar. Adrian remembered with dread all the events of the preceding day: Truhin, the brigadier, and the sergeant appeared dimly before him. He was silently expecting the girl to begin the conversation, and to relate to him the results of the night's adventures.
"How thou hast overslept thyself, Adrian Próhorovitch, sir," said Aksinia, handing him his dressing-gown. "Thy neighbours, the tailor and the watchman, came to thee with the announcement that it was the Saint's-day of the Commissary of Police, but thou wast pleased to sleep, and we did not like to awake thee."
"And did they come to me from the late Madame Truhin?"
"Late? Is she then dead?"
