drew the two left boots on to his feet, and set off, limping, to
Madame la Générale Shevelitsyn's. He went about the town all day
long tuning pianos, and all day long it seemed to him that everyone
was looking at his feet and seeing his patched boots with heels
worn down at the sides! Apart from his moral agonies he had to
suffer physically also; the boots gave him a corn.

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 . . ."