A minute later the deep drone of Alexey Nikolaitch’s voice was audible again.  A quarter of an hour passed, and instead of his bass there was the murmur of the accountant’s powerful tenor.”

“Re-mark-ably nasty woman,” Kistunov thought indignantly, nervously shrugging his shoulders.  “No more brains than a sheep.  I believe that’s a twinge of the gout again. . . .  My migraine is coming back. . . .”

In the next room Alexey Nikolaitch, at the end of his resources, at last tapped his finger on the table and then on his own forehead.

“The fact of the matter is you haven’t a head on your shoulders,” he said, “but this.”

“Come, come,” said the old lady, offended.  “Talk to your own wife like that. . . .  You screw! . . .  Don’t be too free with your hands.”

And looking at her with fury, with exasperation, as though he would devour her, Alexey Nikolaitch said in a quiet, stifled voice: 

“Clear out.”

“Wha-at?” squealed Madame Shtchukin.  “How dare you?  I am a weak, defenceless woman; I won’t endure it.  My husband is a collegiate assessor.  You screw! . . .  I will go to Dmitri Karlitch, the lawyer, and there will be nothing left of you!  I’ve had the law of three lodgers, and I will make you flop down at my feet for your saucy words!  I’ll go to your general.  Your Excellency, your Excellency!”

“Be off, you pest,” hissed Alexey Nikolaitch.

Kistunov opened his door and looked into the office.

“What is it?” he asked in a tearful voice.

Madame Shtchukin, as red as a crab, was standing in the middle of the room, rolling her eyes and prodding the air with her fingers.  The bank clerks were standing round red in the face too, and, evidently harassed, were looking at each other distractedly.

“Your Excellency,” cried Madame Shtchukin, pouncing upon Kistunov.  “Here, this man, he here . . . this man . . .” (she pointed to Alexey Nikolaitch) “tapped himself on the forehead and then tapped the table. . . .  You told him to go into my case, and he’s jeering at me!  I am a weak, defenceless woman. . . .  My husband is a collegiate assessor, and I am a major’s daughter myself!”

“Very good, madam,” moaned Kistunov.  “I will go into it . . .  I will take steps. . . .  Go away . . . later!”

“And when shall I get the money, your Excellency?  I need it to-day!”

Kistunov passed his trembling hand over his forehead, heaved a sigh, and began explaining again.

“Madam, I have told you already this is a bank, a private commercial establishment. . . .  What do you want of us?  And do understand that you are hindering us.”

Madame Shtchukin listened to him and sighed.

“To be sure, to be sure,” she assented.  “Only, your Excellency, do me the kindness, make me pray for you for the rest of my life, be a father, protect me!  If a medical certificate is not enough I can produce an affidavit from the police. . . .  Tell them to give me the money.”