“What a nice man he is!”
“Who is?” inquired Sobakevitch, gazing into the corner by the stove.
“The President of the Local Council.”
“Did he seem so to you? True, he is a mason, but he is also the greatest fool that the world ever saw.”
Chichikov started a little at this mordant criticism, but soon pulled himself together again, and continued:
“Of course, every man has his weakness. Yet the President seems to be an excellent fellow.”
“And do you think the same of the Governor?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“Because there exists no greater rogue than he.”
“What? The Governor a rogue?” ejaculated Chichikov, at a loss to understand how the official in question could come to be numbered with thieves. “Let me say that I should never have guessed it. Permit me also to remark that his conduct would hardly seem to bear out your opinion—he seems so gentle a man.” And in proof of this Chichikov cited the purses which the Governor knitted, and also expatiated on the mildness of his features.