“Then you do not want any WOMEN souls?” queried Sobakevitch.
“I thank you, no.”
“I could let you have some cheap—say, as between friends, at a rouble a head?”
“No, I should have no use for them.”
“Then, that being so, there is no more to be said. There is no accounting for tastes. ‘One man loves the priest, and another the priest’s wife,’ says the proverb.”
Chichikov rose to take his leave. “Once more I would request of you,” he said, “that the bargain be left as it is.”
“Of course, of course. What is done between friends holds good because of their mutual friendship. Good-bye, and thank you for your visit. In advance I would beg that, whenever you should have an hour or two to spare, you will come and lunch with us again. Perhaps we might be able to do one another further service?”
“Not if I know it!” reflected Chichikov as he mounted his britchka. “Not I, seeing that I have had two and a half roubles per soul squeezed out of me by a brute of a kulak!”
Altogether he felt dissatisfied with Sobakevitch’s behaviour. In spite of the man being a friend of the Governor and the Chief of Police, he had acted like an outsider in taking money for what was worthless rubbish. As the britchka left the courtyard Chichikov glanced back and saw Sobakevitch still standing on the verandah—apparently for the purpose of watching to see which way the guest’s carriage would turn.
“The old villain, to be still standing there!” muttered Chichikov through his teeth; after which he ordered Selifan to proceed so that the vehicle’s progress should be invisible from the mansion—the truth being that he had a mind next to visit Plushkin (whose serfs, to quote Sobakevitch, had a habit of dying like flies), but not to let his late host learn of his intention. Accordingly, on reaching the further end of the village, he hailed the first peasant whom he saw—a man who was in the act of hoisting a ponderous beam on to his shoulder before setting off with it, ant-like, to his hut.