# Diamonds To Sit On/Chapter 2

Contents
CHAPTER II
THE DEATH OF MADAM PETUKHOV
CLAVIDIA IVANOVNA PETUKHOV was lying on her back with one arm under her head. She was wearing a glaring yellow boudoir cap which belonged to the days when ladies were just beginning to dance the tango.
There was a triumphant look on her face, but it expressed absolutely nothing. She was staring up at the ceiling.
'Mother,' said Hippolyte in a hushed voice.
His mother-in-law began to move her lips, but instead of the familiar trumpet-blast he heard such a low, pathetic moan that his heart began to ache. A tear unexpectedly rolled down his cheek.
'Mother,' he repeated, 'what's the matter with you?'
But there was no reply. The old woman closed her eyes and turned over on her side.
Madam Kuznetsov tiptoed into the room, took Hippolyte by the hand, and led him away like a boy being dragged off to have his face washed.
'She's gone to sleep and the doctor said she wasn't to be disturbed. So just run to the chemist—here's the prescription—and find out how much an ice-bag costs.'
Hippolyte did what she told him to do, for he felt he was his superior in these matters.
It was a long way to the chemist's and it was almost dark in the street, but in the last rays of the sun he could just see Bezenchuk leaning against his gate munching his supper of bread and onion. A little farther on the three Nymphs were licking their spoons and eating some porridge out of one pot. When they caught sight of Hippolyte they drew themselves up ​like soldiers. Bezenchuk shrugged his shoulders and jerking his thumb towards his competitors he muttered:
'Oh, those louts, they're always in the way.'
Round the statue in the square there was a great clacking of tongues about the news of Madam Petukhov's sudden attack. The general verdict was that they would all have to go through it some day, and that anyway what God gives He will take away.
The hairdresser 'Pierre and Constantine ', who, by the way, always answered to the name of Andrew, did not miss this chance of displaying his medical knowledge gleaned from an illustrated Moscow journal.
'Science,' he said, 'can do marvels nowadays. Take this, for instance: a customer may suddenly get a pimple on his chin; in the old days it might have led to blood poisoning, but nowadays in Moscow, I'm told, although of course I don't know whether it is true or no, every single customer has a specially sterilized shaving-brush.'
The listeners sighed heavily.
'Eh, Andrew, you're exaggerating, aren't you?'
'Who ever heard of separate brushes for every customer? What next will the fellow invent?'
One of his listeners was annoyed: 'Excuse me, sir, but according to the last census there are more than two million people living in Moscow. Do you mean to tell me they would use two million brushes? That's pretty good; I must say!'
The discussion was getting rather heated, and goodness knows where it would have led to, but the crowd suddenly saw Hippolyte.
'He's off to the chemist. That's a bad sign.'
'The old girl will die all right. It's not for nothing that Bezenchuk has been dashing about all day like a madman.'
'What's the doctor say?'
'The doctor! Where can you find a decent insurance doctor? Why, they'd put any one under the sod!' ​Andrew, who had been itching to say something more about medicine, said in a solemn voice: 'There's nothing like haemoglobin.'
And having said this he was silent, leaving the rest to think over the marvels of that remedy.
The moon rose. It was time for supper and the idlers went home.
Meanwhile Madam Petukhov was dying. At one minute she asked for water, at another she wanted to get up to fetch Hippolyte's boots which had been taken to be repaired, then she said she would choke with all the dust that was flying about, and then she wanted all the lamps to be lit.
Hippolyte was worn out with anxiety and was pacing up and down the room. Disagreeable thoughts crowded into his head. He would have to take an advance from the Society of Mutual Credit; he would have to run for the priest and answer letters of sympathy from relations. To distract himself a little he went out on to the top step and in the green light of the moon he suddenly noticed Bezenchuk.
'Well, Mr. Vorobianinov,' he said, 'what are you BC to order?'
'Oh! I don't know,' said Hippolyte gloomily.
'I tell you the Nymphs aren't any earthly use. What sort of goods can they supply?'
'Go to the devil!' snapped Hippolyte. 'I'm sick to death of the sight of you.'
Oh! I——It's nothing really. I only came to ask you about the tassels and brocade. What'll you have? Superfine quality A, or what?'
'No tassels and no brocade. A simple wooden coffin. Pine. D'you hear?'
Bezenchuk put his finger to his lips to show that he had caught the other man's meaning perfectly, turned on his heel, and staggered home. It was only then Hippolyte realized that the undertaker was drunk.
Hippolyte was disgusted. He could not imagine ​how he would be able to go on living in the empty, untidy house. He felt that with the death of his mother-in-law all the little comforts which he had created with such difficulty after the revolution would disappear. The revolution had swept away all his lavish comforts and habits. 'Get married,' he thought to himself; 'who shall I marry? Shall I marry the niece of the head of the military police? Or shall I have a housekeeper? No, that will cost too much.'
The future seemed black to him, and feeling disgusted with everything in general he turned back into the house.
Clavdia Ivanovna had stopped raving. She was lying propped up on her pillows, and as Hippolyte came into the bedroom she looked at him quite sensibly and, as he thought, rather sternly.
'Hippolyte,' she whispered very distinctly, 'come and sit down by my side. I have got something to tell you.'
Hippolyte sat down rather unwillingly and stared at his mother-in-law's thin face. He tried to smile and say something encouraging, but it was a wry smile, and he could not find anything comforting to say. He mumbled something unintelligibly.
'Hippolyte,' she said, 'do you remember our drawing-room furniture?'
'Which furniture?' asked Hippolyte quietly.
'The furniture which was upholstered in English chintz.'
'Oh! you mean in the old home?'
'Yes, in Stargorod.'
'Yes, I remember it very well. There was a sofa, a dozen chairs, and a round table on six legs. It was magnificent furniture, made by Gambs. But why have you suddenly thought of it?'
She could not answer. Her face was beginning to turn grey. Hippolyte caught his breath. He could see the drawing-room in his old home, the walnut ​furniture arranged with precision round the room, the polished parquet floor, the old-fashioned brown piano, and his ancestors in their black oval frames on the walls.
Suddenly the invalid said in a dull, hollow voice: 'I hid my diamonds in the seat of one of the chairs.' Hippolyte stared at the old woman.
'Diamonds?' he said mechanically. 'What diamonds? Didn't they take them away from you when 'they came to search the house?'
'I hid my diamonds in a chair,' the old woman repeated obstinately.
Hippolyte jumped up and, looking down at her face in the lamplight, he saw that she meant what she said.
'Your diamonds?' he shouted, and was surprised 'at the force of his own voice, 'in a chair? Who on earth put that idea into your head? Why didn't you give them to me?'
'Why should I give them to you? You'd already squandered all my daughter's money,' replied the old woman venomously.
Hippolyte sat down and immediately jumped up again. His heart was thumping, the blood rushed to his head, his temples were throbbing.
But you must have taken them out of the chair?
Where are they? Have you got them here?'
The old woman shook her head.
'I didn't have time. Don't you remember how quickly we had to get away? I had to leave the diamonds in the chair. It was the one that stood between the terra-cotta lamp and the fireplace.'
'But it was a mad thing to do,' he shouted. 'Oh! you're just like your daughter!'
And regardless of the fact that he was standing by the side of a dying woman, he pushed his chair back impatiently and started to walk up and down the room.
The old woman watched him listlessly.
But surely you've some idea where the chairs went ​to, or perhaps you thought they'd stay in the drawingroom waiting for you to come and fetch them?'
The old woman did not reply.
'Who'd believe that any one could be such a fool as to hide seventy thousand roubles' worth of diamonds in a chair! In a chair! And God knows who is sitting on it. Now, at this very minute!'
A sob came from the bed and the old woman fell over to one side. She tried to clutch Hippolyte with her hand, but it fell heavily back on to the blanket.
Hippolyte was terrified and ran off to their neighbour.
'I think she's dying,' he said.
The neighbour crossed herself in a business-like way, and she and her husband hurried into the house, while Hippolyte, feeling quite dazed, staggered into the town garden.
God knows what passed in his mind. He could hear gipsy choruses and weird music; he could see Moscow in the winter, fine horses, and all sorts of fantastic pictures. He slackened his pace and stumbled against Bezenchuk, who was lying fast asleep in the middle of the path. The undertaker woke up with a start, sneezed, and jumped to his feet.
'Don't worry, Mr. Vorobianinov,' he said, as if he were continuing their earlier conversation; 'the coffin will be a good one.'
'She's dead,' said Hippolyte.
'God rest her soul! So she's dead. Well, well, elderly ladies must die, you know. Your old lady was little and good, and, as we say, she's presented her soul to God.'
'What do you mean? We say. Who says?'
'Why, we undertakers. When a good little body like that dies we always say, "Ah! well, she's gone to face God." Of course when it's an ordinary fellow, a porter or some one like that, then we say, 'Ah, well, he's stretched his legs out for the last time.' ​Rather staggered by such a queer classification, Hippolyte asked: 'And what will they say when you die?'
'When I die? Oh! I'm nobody. When I die they'll simply wag their heads and say, 'So Bezenchuk's gone and snuffed it, eh?' 'Then he continued more seriously: 'Now what about that coffin, Mr. Vorobianinov? You didn't really mean you wanted one without tassels and brocade, did you?'
But Hippolyte was again deep in thought and did not reply. Bezenchuk followed him, counting something on his fingers and muttering as usual.
By now Hippolyte had made up his mind.
'I'll go,' he said. 'I'll jolly well go and find them.'
CHAPTER III
THE MIRROR OF SIN
AFTER listening to the dying woman's confession, Father Theodore left Hippolyte's house in great agitation and walked down the road, smiling absent-mindedly to himself. He was nearly run over by a motor-car and only just escaped out of the petrol fumes, but forgetting the dignity of his calling and age, he set off home at a gallop.
His wife was laying the table for supper. On days when there were no vespers Father Theodore liked to have supper early, but this time he took off his hat and coat and, much to the surprise of his wife, ran straight into the bedroom, locked the door, and began to pray in a loud, monotonous voice. 'There's something in the wind,' his wife thought to herself rather anxiously. 'I wonder what's the matter?'
Father Theodore was never at peace. He had never known what peace was, not even in the days when he had been a student at the theological college. After that he had studied law for three years at the university, but taking fright at the idea of being called up for military service in 1915, he again returned to the Church. First he was made a deacon, then ordained a priest, and finally appointed to this provincial town. Wherever he had been, and in whatever calling, he had always been greedy for gain, and had had dreams of making money.
One of his dreams was to own a candle factory. Tormented by visions of great vats of wax, he pictured to himself the time when he would be able to buy a little factory of his own.
His ideas came by fits and starts, and as soon as they came he began to scheme and make plans. Once