"A hundred roubles!" exclaimed Tchichikoff, opening his mouth widely, and looking him straight into the eyes, not knowing whether he had heard rightly, or whether Sobakevitch's tongue, prompted by his heavy intelligence, had tripped, and pronounced accidentally one word for another.
"Well, is that too dear for you?" articulated Sobakevitch; and then he added: "But allow me to ask, what would your price be?"
"My price! We have, no doubt, misunderstood one another; we seem to have forgotten what our subject is. As far as I am concerned, and laying my hand upon my heart, one rouble would be the fairest price I could offer you."
"Halloa! what a ridiculous price, to be sure, one rouble!"
"Why, according to my judgment, and as I think, I could not give more."
"But remember, I do not sell you any cat's-paws."
"However, you must agree; they are not any real men."
"That is your opinion; but go and find me such a fool, who would agree to sell you a census serf for a single rouble."
"But allow me to ask you, why do you call them census serfs? They are dead long since, nothing remains of them but an incomprehensible sound in their appellation. However, in order to avoid the trouble of entering more particularly in a discussion on abstract matters, I am ready to offer you one rouble and a half, but more I really could not."
"You ought to be ashamed to offer me such a price! You like to drive a bargain; well then, tell me your real price."