“I understand, sir. Of course you require only the very newest thing. A cloth of that kind I DO possess, sir, and though excessive in price, it is of a quality to match.”
Carrying the roll of stuff to the light—even stepping into the street for the purpose—the shopman unfolded his prize with the words, “A truly beautiful shade! A cloth of smoked grey, shot with flame colour!”
The material met with the customer’s approval, a price was agreed upon, and with incredible celerity the vendor made up the purchase into a brown-paper parcel, and stowed it away in Chichikov’s koliaska.
At this moment a voice asked to be shown a black frockcoat.
“The devil take me if it isn’t Khlobuev!” muttered our hero, turning his back upon the newcomer. Unfortunately the other had seen him.
“Come, come, Paul Ivanovitch!” he expostulated. “Surely you do not intend to overlook me? I have been searching for you everywhere, for I have something important to say to you.”
“My dear sir, my very dear sir,” said Chichikov as he pressed Khlobuev’s hand, “I can assure you that, had I the necessary leisure, I should at all times be charmed to converse with you.” And mentally he added: “Would that the Evil One would fly away with you!”
Almost at the same time Murazov, the great landowner, entered the shop. As he did so our hero hastened to exclaim: “Why, it is Athanasi Vassilievitch! How ARE you, my very dear sir?”
“Well enough,” replied Murazov, removing his cap (Khlobuev and the shopman had already done the same). “How, may I ask, are YOU?”
“But poorly,” replied Chichikov, “for of late I have been troubled with indigestion, and my sleep is bad. I do not get sufficient exercise.”