“And what about the price?” he added aloud. “Of course, the articles are not of a kind very easy to appraise.”
“I should be sorry to ask too much,” said Sobakevitch. “How would a hundred roubles per head suit you?”
“What, a hundred roubles per head?” Chichikov stared open-mouthed at his host—doubting whether he had heard aright, or whether his host’s slow-moving tongue might not have inadvertently substituted one word for another.
“Yes. Is that too much for you?” said Sobakevitch. Then he added: “What is your own price?”
“My own price? I think that we cannot properly have understood one another—that you must have forgotten of what the goods consist. With my hand on my heart do I submit that eight grivni per soul would be a handsome, a VERY handsome, offer.”
“What? Eight grivni?”
“In my opinion, a higher offer would be impossible.”
“But I am not a seller of boots.”
“No; yet you, for your part, will agree that these souls are not live human beings?”
“I suppose you hope to find fools ready to sell you souls on the census list for a couple of groats apiece?”