'Disinter them! what nonsense; no!' cried Tchitchikof. 'You hand them over to me by a regular conveyance, and I pay you whatever we agree upon for them.'
'And what will you do with them?' asked Nastasie in great surprise.
'That is my business,' said Tchitchikof.
'But you see they are dead.'
'And who, in the name of goodness, said they were living?' cried he. 'It's a misfortune for you that they are dead, isn't it? You pay the tax for them, don't you?—and that'll half-ruin you, you say. Well, I clear you of the tax for these eighteen dead ones—do you understand?—not only clear you of the tax, but give fifteen rubles into the bargain. Is that clear, or is it not?'
'No—yes—I can't tell what to say. You see, I have never sold dead peasants before, and'——-
'It would be queer if you had,' cried Tchitchikof. 'Who'd buy them, do you think? It's my humour, my whim, to have them. I gain nothing by them—how can I?—and you gain everything. Cannot you see that?'
'Yes—but—really I don't know what to say. What puzzles me is, that they are dead.'
'She hasn't the brains of a bullock,' exclaimed Tchitchikof indignantly. 'Listen, matouchka. Pay attention. You pay for them as if they were living: that will ruin you.'