The cavalryman kept hiccuping as he sat silent beside his gipsy. The Captain of Police called for vodka, invited everyone to come at once and have breakfast with him, promising that his wife would certainly dance with the gipsies. The handsome young man was profoundly explaining to Ilúshka that there is more soul in pianoforte music, and that you could not play bémols on a guitar. The official sat in a corner sadly drinking his tea, and in the daylight seemed ashamed of his debauchery. The gipsies were disputing among themselves in their own tongue as to “hailing the guests” again, which Styóshka opposed, saying that the baroráy (that is, count or prince, or, more literally, “great gentleman,” in gipsy language) would be angry. In general, the last embers of the debauch were dying out in everyone.

“Well, one farewell song, and then off to your homes!” said the Count, entering the parlour in travelling dress, fresh, merry, and handsomer than ever.