'Deuce take it!' thought Tchitchikov to himself. 'He is ready to sell them before I drop a hint of it!' And aloud he said, 'And at what price, for instance? Though, indeed, it is a queer sort of goods … it seems odd to speak of the price.'
'Well, not to ask you too much, a hundred roubles apiece,' said Sobakevitch.
'A hundred!' cried Tchitchikov, staring into his face, with his mouth open, not knowing whether his ears had deceived him or whether Sobakevitch's tongue in its heavy clumsiness had brought out the wrong word.
'Oh, is that too dear for you?' said Sobakevitch, and then added, 'Why, what may your price be then?'
'My price! We must be making some mistake or misunderstanding each other, and have forgotten what it is we are talking about. I protest, laying my hand on my heart, I can offer no more than eighty kopecks a soul,—that's the very highest price!'
'Ech, what an idea, eighty kopecks! …'
'Well, in my judgment, I can offer no more.'
'Why, I am not selling bark shoes.'
'You must admit, however, that they are not men either.'
'Do you suppose you would find anybody fool enough to sell you a soul on the census for a few paltry kopecks.'
'But excuse me, why do you speak of them like that? Why, the souls have been dead a long while, nothing is left but an insubstantial name.
