He slept very badly that night. Certain small but very dauntless insects bit him in an intolerably painful manner, so that when he had scratched a whole handful off himself he exclaimed, “I wish the devil had taken you, and Nozdreff also!”
He woke early in the morning. His first act, after putting on his dressing-gown and boots, was to cross the yard to the stable, and order Selifan to harness the britchka at once. As he was returning through the yard he met Nozdreff, who was also in his dressing-gown, and had a pipe between his lips.
Nozdreff greeted him in a friendly way, and inquired how he had slept.
“So-so,” replied Tchitchikoff very drily.
“As for myself, my dear fellow,” said Nozdreff, “I had the horrors all night—it’s terrible to speak of it; it seems as if a squadron had bivouacked in my mouth. I yelled so; for, just fancy, I dreamed that I was being flogged, ha, ha! And by whom do you suppose? You’ll never guess it. Why, by Staff-Captain Potzyelueff and my friend Kuvshinnikoff.”
“Yes,” thought Tchitchikoff to himself, “it would be a good thing if they would really give you a sound drubbing in real life.”
“By heavens! it was extremely painful,” resumed Nozdreff. “I woke up, and, devil take it! there actually was something scratching me; in fact, it was the fleas. Now, go and dress yourself; I will join you immediately. I have only to give that rascally steward of mine a good cursing.”
Tchitchikoff went to his room to wash and dress. When he emerged into the dining-room after performing his ablutions, the tea-things and a bottle of rum were already standing on the table. Traces of the dinner and supper of the preceding day were still about the room. The broom did not appear to have been applied at all, for the floor was strewn with bits of crust, and some tobacco-ash still lay on the tablecloth. Nozdreff himself, who entered immediately afterwards, had nothing on besides his dressing-gown, which, being partially open, disclosed his bare hairy chest. As he held his tchibouk in his hand and sipped his tea, he was a very fine sight indeed for one of those painters who object to gentlemen whose hair is too well-brushed and curled, or who are too sprucely attired.
“Well, what do you think about it?” said Nozdreff after a brief silence; “won’t you play for the souls?”
“I have already told you, my dear fellow, that I don’t play I will purchase them, if you like.”
“Then I won’t sell; that wouldn’t be behaving in a friendly manner. I won’t take money for the deuce knows what. But play is another matter. Let’s cut the cards at least.”
“I have already said no.”
“And you won’t change your mind?”
“No; I will not.”
“Then listen; let us play at draughts: if you win, all the dead souls will be yours. For I have a great many who must be crossed out of the next census list. Hey, there, Porfiriy, fetch the draught-board here!”
“It is useless trouble; I shall not play,” said Tchitchikoff.
“But this is not gambling. There can be no luck or falsifying in this; it’s all skill. I even warn you in advance that I hardly know how to play at all; so perhaps you will allow me something to start with.”
“Well, I’ll try it,” said Tchitchikoff to himself. “I’ll play at draughts with him. I used to play the game rather well, and it will be difficult for him to indulge in any of his tricks in it.”