“What do you want?” said both functionaries, turning round.

“I want to have a deed of sale registered.”

“What have you been buying?”

“I wish to know first of all where the serf department is—here, or where?”

“Tell us first what you have bought, and what price you have paid, and then we will tell you where to go; but it’s impossible for us to do so otherwise.”

Tchitchikoff immediately perceived that these officials were simply inquisitive young fellows who unduly assumed an air of importance.

“Listen,” said he; “I know perfectly well that all affairs connected with serfs, no matter what the price paid for them may be, are transacted in one place, and I therefore beg of you to show us the department; if you do not know what goes on here about you, we will inquire of someone else.”

To this the functionaries made no reply: one of them merely pointed with his finger to a corner of the room, where there sat an old man docketing some papers. Tchitchikoff made his way straight up to him. The old man was greatly absorbed in his work.

“Permit me to inquire,” said Tchitchikoff with a bow, “whether this is the place for matters connected with sale of serfs?”

The old man raised his eyes and replied, “No, this is not the place for serf-sales.”

“Where is it, then?”

“In the serf department.”

“And where is the serf department?”

“Ivan Antonovitch has charge of it.”

“And where is Ivan Antonovitch?”

The old man pointed with his finger to another corner of the room, and Tchitchikoff and Maniloff betook themselves to Ivan Antonovitch. Ivan Antonovitch had already cast a glance behind him and taken a stealthy survey of them; but he now busied himself more intently than ever with his writing.

“Permit me to inquire,” said Tchitchikoff with a bow, “whether this is the place for the transaction of business connected with the sale of serfs?”

Ivan Antonovitch pretended not to hear him, and, without vouchsafing any reply, became absorbed in his papers. It at once became apparent that he had attained to years of discretion—in fact he seemed to be well past forty. His hair was black and thick, and he had one of those faces which is designated in common life as a “jug phiz.”

“Allow me to inquire whether this is the serf department?” repeated Tchitchikoff.

“Yes,” said Ivan Antonovitch, who just turned his jug face round, and then went on with his writing.

“Well, this is my business. I have purchased some peasants for exportation from various proprietors in this district. I have the deeds of sale; all that remains is to register them.”

“Are the vendors present?”