He was just dropping off to sleep when the sound of opening doors, and steps in the anteroom, roused him again. “Well, shall I treat him rather severely?” he asked himself; “I suppose that is best, and I ought to do it.”
He rang.
“Well, did you find him?” he asked of Zakhár, who answered his call.
“He’s a poor, wretched fellow, Dmitri Ivánovitch,” said Zakhár, shaking his head significantly, and closing his eyes.
“What! is he drunk?”
“Very weak.”
“Had he the violin with him?”
“I brought it: the lady gave it to me.”
“All right. Now please don’t bring him to me tonight: let him sleep it off; and tomorrow don’t under any circumstances let him out of the house.”
But before Zakhár had time to leave the room, Albert came in.