anything to hear. One passed beside him without suspecting him,
and men might talk to each other without an idea that he heard
them, and even talk to themselves according to the habit people
have sometimes when they think themselves quite alone. All the
guests had departed thus, passing close by him, almost brushing
him, had exchanged their "Adieus," their "Au revoirs," and all
their final, drawn-out farewells. That dear little living domovoi
certainly was a rogue! Oh, that dear little domovoi who had been
so affected by the tears of Matrena Petrovna! The good, fat,
sentimental, heroic woman longed to hear, just then, his
reassuring voice.

"It is I. Here I am," said the voice of her little living familiar
spirit at that instant, and she felt her skirt grasped. She waited
for what he should say. She felt no fear. Yet she had supposed he
was outside the house. Still, after all, she was not too astonished
that he was within. He was so adroit! He had entered behind her,
in the shadow of her skirts, on all-fours, and had slipped away
without anyone noticing him, while she was speaking to her enormous,
majestic schwitzar.

"So you were here?" she said, taking his hand and pressing it
nervously in hers.

"Yes, yes. I have watched you closing the house. It is a task
well-done, certainly. You have not forgotten anything."

"But where were you, dear little demon? I have been into all the
corners, and my hands did not touch you."