two wretched chairs, a window with iron gratings, a dilapidated stove which smoked through a crack but gave no heat, this was the abode in which our Tchitchikov, who had just begun to taste the sweets of life and to attract the attention of his countrymen, found himself in his delicate new coat of the 'smoke and flame of Navarino.' They had not even let him arrange to take the most necessary articles, to take his case in which he had his money, his portmanteau in which he had his wardrobe. His papers relating to his purchase of dead souls, all were now in the hands of the officials! He grovelled on the floor, and the gnawing worm of terrible, hopeless grief coiled about his heart. With increasing rapidity, it began corroding his heart, which was utterly defenceless. Another such day, another day of such misery and there would have been no Tchitchikov left. But some one was keeping vigilant watch over Tchitchikov and holding out a hand to save him. An hour after he had reached this terrible plight, the doors of the prison opened, and old Murazov walked in.
If a draught of spring water were poured down the throat of a man tortured by burning thirst he would not have been so revived as poor Tchitchikov.
'My saviour!' said Tchitchikov, jumping up from the floor on which he had flung himself in heartrending grief; instantly he kissed his hand and pressed it to his bosom. 'God will reward you for visiting the unhappy!'
