In the evening he was at the theatre.  There was a performance of Bluebeard.  It was only just before the last act, and then only thanks to the good offices of a man he knew who played a flute in the orchestra, that he gained admittance behind the scenes.  Going to the men’s dressing-room, he found there all the male performers.  Some were changing their clothes, others were painting their faces, others were smoking.  Bluebeard was standing with King Bobesh, showing him a revolver.

“You had better buy it,” said Bluebeard.  “I bought it at Kursk, a bargain, for eight roubles, but, there!  I will let you have it for six. . . .  A wonderfully good one!”

“Steady. . . .  It’s loaded, you know!”

“Can I see Mr. Blistanov?” the piano-tuner asked as he went in.

“I am he!” said Bluebeard, turning to him.  “What do you want?”

“Excuse my troubling you, sir,” began the piano-tuner in an imploring voice, “but, believe me, I am a man in delicate health, rheumatic.  The doctors have ordered me to keep my feet warm . . .”

“But, speaking plainly, what do you want?”

“You see,” said the piano-tuner, addressing Bluebeard.  “Er . . . you stayed last night at Buhteyev’s furnished apartments . . .  No. 64 . . .”

“What’s this nonsense?” said King Bobesh with a grin.  “My wife is at No. 64.”

“Your wife, sir?  Delighted. . . .”  Murkin smiled.  “It was she, your good lady, who gave me this gentleman’s boots. . . .  After this gentleman—­” the piano-tuner indicated Blistanov—­“had gone away I missed my boots. . . .  I called the waiter, you know, and he said:  ‘I left your boots in the next room!’ By mistake, being in a state of intoxication, he left my boots as well as yours at 64,” said Murkin, turning to Blistanov, “and when you left this gentleman’s lady you put on mine.”

“What are you talking about?” said Blistanov, and he scowled.  “Have you come here to libel me?”

“Not at all, sir—­God forbid!  You misunderstand me.  What am I talking about?  About boots!  You did stay the night at No. 64, didn’t you?”

“When?”

“Last night!”

“Why, did you see me there?”

“No, sir, I didn’t see you,” said Murkin in great confusion, sitting down and taking off the boots.  “I did not see you, but this gentleman’s lady threw out your boots here to me . . . instead of mine.”

“What right have you, sir, to make such assertions?  I say nothing about myself, but you are slandering a woman, and in the presence of her husband, too!”

A fearful hubbub arose behind the scenes.  King Bobesh, the injured husband, suddenly turned crimson and brought his fist down upon the table with such violence that two actresses in the next dressing-room felt faint.

“And you believe it?” cried Bluebeard.  “You believe this worthless rascal?  O-oh!  Would you like me to kill him like a dog?  Would you like it?  I will turn him into a beefsteak!  I’ll blow his brains out!”