'And what number, for instance?' Tchitchikov inquired.
'Yes, how many precisely?' Manilov chimed in.
'Why, how can I say what number? There is no telling, you know, how many have died, no one has counted them.'
'Yes, precisely,' said Manilov, addressing Tchitchikov. 'I, too, supposed there had been a considerable mortality; it is quite uncertain how many have died.'
'Please count them,' said Tchitchikov to the steward, 'and make an exact list of all of them by name.'
'Yes, of all of them by name,' said Manilov.
The steward said, 'Yes, sir,' and went out.
'And for what reason do you want to know?' Manilov inquired when the steward had gone.
This question seemed to put the visitor in some difficulty: his face betrayed a strained effort which even made him flush crimson, an effort to express something not easily put into words. And indeed Manilov did at last hear things more strange and extraordinary than human ears had ever heard before.
'You ask for what reason. The reason is this, I should like to buy the peasants …,' said Tchitchikov, hesitating and not finishing his sentence.
'But allow me to ask,' said Manilov, 'how do you wish to buy peasants, with land or simply to take away, that is, without land?'
'No, it's not exactly the peasants,' said Tchitchikov. 'I want to have dead ones …'
