'Seventy-eight, seventy-eight at thirty-two kopecks each, that makes …' At this point our hero thought for one second, not more. 'That makes twenty-four roubles, ninety-six kopecks! …' He was good at arithmetic. He immediately made Plyushkin write out a list of the serfs and paid him the money, which the latter took in both hands and carried to his bureau with as much care as though he were carrying some liquid and was in fear every minute of spilling it. On reaching the bureau he looked over the money once more, and with the same care put it in a drawer, where it no doubt was destined to be buried, till such time as Father Karp and Father Polikarp, the two priests of his village, came to bury him himself, to the indescribable joy of his son-in-law and his daughter, and possibly of the captain who claimed relationship with him. After putting away the money, Plyushkin sat down in his armchair, and seemed unable to find a subject for further conversation.
'Why, are you going already,' he said, noticing a slight movement on the part of Tchitchikov, who was however only intending to get out his handkerchief.
This question reminded him that he really had no reason for lingering. 'Yes, I must be off,' he said, taking his hat.
'And what about tea?'
'No, I must have a cup of tea with you next time I come.'
