Gavrilo was filled with great
respect for his master, who, despite his knavish exterior, was so well
known and treated with so much confidence.

"There, let us eat a bite, and talk afterward. Wait for me an instant,
I will be back directly."

He went out. Gavrilo looked around him. The ale-house was in a
basement; it was damp and dark and reeking with tobacco smoke, tar and
a musty odor. In front of Gavrilo, at another table, was a drunken
sailor, with a red beard, all covered with charcoal and tar. He was
humming, interrupted by frequent hiccoughs, a fragment of a song very
much out of tune. He was evidently not a Russian.

Behind him were two ragged women from Moldavia, black-haired and
sun-burned; they were also grinding out a song.

Further on, other faces started out from the darkness, all dishevelled,
half drunk, writhing, restless. . .

Gavrilo was afraid to remain alone. He longed for his master's return.
The divers noises of the ale-house blended in one single note: it
seemed like the roaring of some enormous animal with a hundred voices,
struggling blindly and furiously in this stone box and finding no
issue. Gavrilo felt himself growing heavy and dull as though his body
had absorbed intoxication; his head swam and he could not see, in spite
of his desire to satisfy his curiosity.

Tchelkache returned; he ate and drank while he talked. At the third
glass Gavrilo was drunk. He grew lively; he wanted to say something
nice to his host, who, worthy man that he was, was treating him so
well, before he had availed himself of his services. But the words,
which vaguely mounted to his throat, refused to leave his suddenly
thick tongue.

Tchelkache looked at him. He said, smiling sarcastically.

"So you're done for, already! . . . it isn't possible! Just for five
small glasses! How will you manage to work?"

"Friend," stammered Gavrilo, "don't be afraid! I will serve you. Ah,
how I'll serve you! Let me embrace you, come?"

"That's right, that's right! . . . One more glass?"

Gavrilo drank. Everything swam before his eyes in unequal waves. That
was unpleasant and gave him nausea. His face had a stupid expression.
In his efforts to speak, he protruded his lips comically and roared.
Tchelkache looked at him fixedly as though he was recalling something,
then without turning aside his gaze twisted his moustache and smiled,
but this time, moodily and viciously.

The ale-house was fille