to what she told me. She says that Madame Korobotchka, a lady from the country, came to her, panic-stricken and pale as death, and told her a tale, such a tale! Only listen, it's a regular novel: all at once at dead of night when every one was asleep there came a knock at the gate more awful than anything you could imagine; there was a shout of "Open, open, or we'll smash open the gate!" … What do you think of that? He's a charming fellow after that, isn't he?'
'And what's this Korobotchka like? Is she young and good-looking?'
'Not at all, she's an old lady.'
'Oh, how charming! So he's after an old lady? It speaks well for the taste of our ladies; they have pitched on a nice person to fall in love with.'
'Well no, Anna Grigoryevna, it's not at all as you suppose. Only imagine, he makes his appearance armed to the teeth like some Rinaldo Rinaldini, and demands: "Sell me all your souls that are dead." Korobotchka answers him very reasonably, saying: "I can't sell them because they are dead." "No," he said, "they are not dead, they are mine, it's my business to know whether they are dead or not," says he. "They are not dead, not dead," he shouts, "not dead!" In fact he makes a fearful scene; all the village rushes up, the children cry, everybody is shouting, no one can make out what's the matter, it was simply an horreur, horreur, horreur! … You
