'It is of no consequence. I do not buy honey.'
'Indeed! hemp, then? Dear me, and I have next to none.'
'Never mind, matouchka,' said Tchitchikof. 'My business in these parts is different. You were mentioning that you have had many deaths here?'
'Alas, yes! eighteen souls,' said Nastasie, sighing; 'and such fine fellows: and the worst is, I shall have to pay for them. The assessor arrives, you must pay what he demands—pay to a soul. Eighteen die—it is all one—you pay the same. They are frightful, they are ruinous, these deaths!'
'Ah, Nastasie,' said Tchitchikof, 'it is the will of God: we must not murmur against Providence! But tell me—will you let me have them?'
'Let you have what?'
'Your dead souls.'
'How can I let you have them?'
'Nothing easier. Sell them to me: I will give you money for them.'
'How! what! Do you want to disinter them?'