"Ilf and Petrov. The Twelve Chairs" - читать интересную книгу автора

Matveyevich and moved towards the door. "Your coffins will drive you out of
your mind."
Bezenchuk obligingly threw open the door, let Vorobyaninov go out first
and then began following him, trembling as though with impatience.
"When the Do-Us-the-Honour was goin', it was all right There wasn't one
firm, not even in Tver, which could touch it in brocade, durn it. But now, I
tell you straight, there's nothin' to beat mine. You don't even need to
look."
Ippolit Matveyevich turned round angrily, glared at Bezenchuk, and
began walking faster. Although he had not had any difficulties at the office
that day, he felt rotten.
The three owners of the Nymph were standing by their establishment in
the same positions in which Ippolit Matveyevich had left them that morning.
They appeared not to have exchanged a single word with one another, yet a
striking change in their expressions and a kind of secret satisfaction
darkly gleaming in their eyes indicated that they had heard something of
importance.
At the sight of his business rivals, Bezenchuk waved his hand in
despair and called after Vorobyaninov in a whisper: "I'll make it thirty-two
roubles." Ippolit Matveyevich frowned and increased his pace. "You can have
credit," added Bezenchuk. The three owners of the Nymph said nothing. They
sped after Vorobyaninov in silence, continually doffing their caps and
bowing as they went.
Highly annoyed by the stupid attentions of the undertakers, Ippolit
Matveyevich ran up the steps of the porch more quickly than usual, irritably
wiped his boots free of mud on one of the steps and, feeling strong pangs of
hunger, went into the hallway. He was met by Father Theodore, priest of the
Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence, who had just come out of the inner room
and was looking hot and bothered. Holding up his cassock in his right hand,
Father Theodore hurried past towards the door, ignoring Ippolit Matveyevich.
It was then that Vorobyaninov noticed the extra cleanliness and the
unsightly disorder of the sparse furniture, and felt a tickling sensation in
his nose from the strong smell of medicine. In the outer room Ippolit
Matveyevich was met by his neighbour, Mrs. Kuznetsov, the agronomist. She
spoke in a whisper, moving her hand about.
"She's worse. She's just made her confession. Don't make a noise with
your boots."
"I'm not," said Ippolit Matveyevich meekly. "What's happened?"
Mrs. Kuznetsov sucked in her lips and pointed to the door of the inner
room: "Very severe heart attack."
Then, clearly repeating what she had heard, added: "The possibility of
her not recovering should not be discounted. I've been on my feet all day. I
came this morning to borrow the mincer and saw the door was open. There was
no one in the kitchen and no one in this room either. So I thought Claudia
Ivanovna had gone to buy flour to make some Easter cake. She'd been going to
for some time. You know what flour is like nowadays. If you don't buy it
beforehand . . ."
Mrs. Kuznetsov would have gone on for a long time describing the flour
and the high price of it and how she found Claudia Ivanovna lying by the
tiled stove completely unconscious, had not a groan from the next room