“Not at all: everyone was saying yesterday that he is still a young man, rather plump, with a rosy complexion, fine bearing, and of good style.”

“It is said that he has served in the Imperial Guards.”

“Tchitchikoff? Really? Come, tell us, Trofim Petrovitch; since he belongs to your district you must know him.”

“No, I don’t; he’s not known in our district; there is no person of that name there.”

“He was an agent for the settlement of disputed claims in Siberia.”

“Well, we must find out from what district he comes: but of whom can we inquire?”

“Oh! he came here straight from Kamtchatka, riding on a reindeer.”

“Ha! ha! ha!”

“I tell you that it is a very grave case.”

“Tchetchelkoff, Tchetchelkoff!” soliloquised one gentleman. “What funny names one encounters in the world nowadays! And so trading in dead souls leads to nobility! Bravissimo! How great is our good mother Russia! She contains all sorts of people naturally, and all kinds of industries and trades are plied within her. And now we have this fellow Tchetchelkoff.”

“What do you mean by your Tchetchelkoff?” interrupted a neighbour. “Who and what is Tchetchelkoff? The name has been read to you a score of times plainly enough; it is Tchetchanin, and not Tchetchelkoff at all: it enrages me to hear proper names mutilated.”

“Pooh! pooh!” burst in another person. “The real name is Tchitchikoff. Mr. Tchitchikoff is here, here in this very hall. He has a fine appearance; and the general expression of his face is of a kind to inspire, or at least it has the reputation of inspiring——”

“Very good, very good, Vasiliy Lukitch!” shouted yet a fourth noble. “Oh heavens! when that fellow undertakes to talk, and, above all, to analyse, there is never any end to it.”

An uncle and a nephew, who were seated side by side, now joined in the chatter.

“Admit him, admit him!” said the nephew. “Mr. Tchitchikoff must be admitted! He purchased, and since he purchased, that signifies that he paid for, his souls. If, instead of buying them, he had robbed, carried off, stolen—then it would be necessary to exclude him and to prosecute him.”

“No doubt,” rejoined the uncle. “And we should demand that he be stripped of his title of noble.”

At this moment a third person stepped up to the uncle and the nephew. He was a short, wrinkled old man in an ancient, naval uniform, with a worn embroidered collar. His whole face was covered with perspiration, and his grey hair was plastered down on his temples. This old sea-dog seemed very agitated. He had already searched every corner of the room; he had now reached the centre of it, and his eyes roved in every direction. On approaching the people of whom we have spoken he said, with a preoccupied, serious air: “Gentlemen, will you have the great kindness to tell me what price Tchitchikoff paid for a dead soul—I mean his average price?”

“Seven roubles and seventy-five copecks, paper money,” gravely replied a stout gentleman, as he held a huge silver snuffbox under his nose, and regaled himself methodically and delightedly with pinches of the aromatic powder.