. .
Gavrilo was afraid to remain alone. He longed for his master's return.
The divers noises of the ale-house blended in one single note: it
seemed like the roaring of some enormous animal with a hundred voices,
struggling blindly and furiously in this stone box and finding no
issue. Gavrilo felt himself growing heavy and dull as though his body
had absorbed intoxication; his head swam and he could not see, in spite
of his desire to satisfy his curiosity.
Tchelkache returned; he ate and drank while he talked. At the third
glass Gavrilo was drunk. He grew lively; he wanted to say something
nice to his host, who, worthy man that he was, was treating him so
well, before he had availed himself of his services. But the words,
which vaguely mounted to his throat, refused to leave his suddenly
thick tongue.
Tchelkache looked at him. He said, smiling sarcastically.
"So you're done for, already! . . . it isn't possible! Just for five
small glasses! How will you manage to work?"
"Friend," stammered Gavrilo, "don't be afraid! I will serve you. Ah,
how I'll serve you! Let me embrace you, come?"
"That's right, that's right! .
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