“Ough!” sighed Kistunov, letting his head drop back.  “There’s no making you see reason.  Do understand that to apply to us with such a petition is as strange as to send in a petition concerning divorce, for instance, to a chemist’s or to the Assaying Board.  You have not been paid your due, but what have we to do with it?”

“Your Excellency, make me remember you in my prayers for the rest of my days, have pity on a lone, lorn woman,” wailed Madame Shtchukin; “I am a weak, defenceless woman. . . .  I am worried to death, I’ve to settle with the lodgers and see to my husband’s affairs and fly round looking after the house, and I am going to church every day this week, and my son-in-law is out of a job. . . .  I might as well not eat or drink. . . .  I can scarcely keep on my feet. . . .  I haven’t slept all night. . . .”

Kistunov was conscious of the palpitation of his heart.  With a face of anguish, pressing his hand on his heart, he began explaining to Madame Shtchukin again, but his voice failed him.

“No, excuse me, I cannot talk to you,” he said with a wave of his hand.  “My head’s going round.  You are hindering us and wasting your time.  Ough!  Alexey Nikolaitch,” he said, addressing one of his clerks, “please will you explain to Madame Shtchukin?”

Kistunov, passing by all the petitioners, went to his private room and signed about a dozen papers while Alexey Nikolaitch was still engaged with Madame Shtchukin.  As he sat in his room Kistunov heard two voices:  the monotonous, restrained bass of Alexey Nikolaitch and the shrill, wailing voice of Madame Shtchukin.

“I am a weak, defenceless woman, I am a woman in delicate health,” said Madame Shtchukin.  “I look strong, but if you were to overhaul me there is not one healthy fibre in me.  I can scarcely keep on my feet, and my appetite is gone. . . .  I drank my cup of coffee this morning without the slightest relish. . . .”

Alexey Nikolaitch explained to her the difference between the departments and the complicated system of sending in papers.  He was soon exhausted, and his place was taken by the accountant.

“A wonderfully disagreeable woman!” said Kistunov, revolted, nervously cracking his fingers and continually going to the decanter of water.  “She’s a perfect idiot!  She’s worn me out and she’ll exhaust them, the nasty creature!  Ough! . . . my heart is throbbing.”

Half an hour later he rang his bell.  Alexey Nikolaitch made his appearance.

“How are things going?” Kistunov asked languidly.

“We can’t make her see anything, Pyotr Alexandritch!  We are simply done.  We talk of one thing and she talks of something else.”

“I . . .  I can’t stand the sound of her voice. . . .  I am ill . . . .  I can’t bear it.”

“Send for the porter, Pyotr Alexandritch, let him put her out.”

“No, no,” cried Kistunov in alarm.  “She will set up a squeal, and there are lots of flats in this building, and goodness knows what they would think of us. . . .  Do try and explain to her, my dear fellow. . . .”