nothing back again! The grave is more merciful; on the tomb is written: 'Here lies a man,' but you can read nothing on the frigid, callous features of old age.
'And do you know any one among your friends,' said Plyushkin as he folded up the letter, 'who is in want of runaway souls?'
'Why, have you runaway ones too?' asked Tchitchikov, quickly pricking up his ears.
'That's just it, I have. My brother-in-law did make inquiries: but he says there is no trace to be found of them; of course, he is a military man, he can clank his spurs well enough, but as for legal business …'
'And what number may there be of them?'
'Why, there are seventy of those too.'
'No, really?'
'Yes indeed! Not a year passes without some running away. They are a shockingly greedy lot, from idleness they have taken to drinking, while I have nothing to eat myself … Really I would take anything I could get for them. So you might advise your friend: if he can only find one in ten, it will be all profit. You know a serf is worth fifty roubles.'
'No, I am not going to let any friend have an inkling of it,' thought Tchitchikov to himself: and then he explained that such a friend could not be found, since the expenses of the business would cost more than that, seeing that one had better cut off the skirts of one's coat than not get away from the courts, but if he really was so
