“Yes⁠ ⁠…” he said, as after this operation he packed up his paraphernalia, crimson with Shtchiptsov’s blood. “You should have sent for me, and I would have come.⁠ ⁠… You needn’t trouble about payment.⁠ ⁠… I do it from sympathy. Where are you to get the money if that idol won’t pay you? Now, please take these drops. They are nice drops! And now you must have a dose of this castor-oil. It’s the real thing. That’s right! I hope it will do you good. Well, now, goodbye.⁠ ⁠…”

Rigoletto took his parcel and withdrew, pleased that he had been of assistance to a fellow-creature.

The next morning Sigaev, the comic man, going in to see Shtchiptsov, found him in a terrible condition. He was lying under his coat, breathing in gasps, while his eyes strayed over the ceiling. In his hands he was crushing convulsively the crumpled quilt.

“To Vyazma!” he whispered, when he saw the comic man. “To Vyazma.”

“Come, I don’t like that, old man!” said the comic man, flinging up his hands. “You see⁠ ⁠… you see⁠ ⁠… you see, old man, that’s not the thing! Excuse me, but⁠ ⁠… it’s positively stupid.⁠ ⁠…”

“To go to Vyazma! My God, to Vyazma!”

“I⁠ ⁠… I did not expect it of you,” the comic man muttered, utterly distracted. “What the deuce do you want to collapse like this for? Aie⁠ ⁠… aie⁠ ⁠… aie!⁠ ⁠… that’s not the thing. A giant as tall as a watchtower, and crying. Is it the thing for actors to cry?”

“No wife nor children,” muttered Shtchiptsov. “I ought not to have gone for an actor, but have stayed at Vyazma. My life has been wasted, Semyon! Oh, to be in Vyazma!”

“Aie⁠ ⁠… aie⁠ ⁠… aie!⁠ ⁠… that’s not the thing! You see, it’s stupid⁠ ⁠… contemptible indeed!”