Page:Dead Souls - A Poem by Nikolay Gogol - vol2.djvu/167

Rh resounding from the entrance hall to the furthest room in the general's lofty echoing apartments.

Tchitchikov awaited with some uneasiness the end of this extraordinary mirth.

'Come, my dear fellow, you must excuse me! The devil must have put you up to such a trick! Ha, ha, ha! To humour the old gentleman and to foist dead ones on him. Ha, ha, ha! Your uncle, your uncle! What a fool you will make of him!'

Tchitchikov found himself in a somewhat embarrassing position; facing him stood the valet, with his mouth open and his eyes starting out of his head.

'Your Excellency, what makes you laugh costs me tears,' he said.

'Forgive me, my dear fellow! You have nearly been the death of me. Why, I'd give five hundred thousand to see your uncle's face when you show him the deed of purchase for three hundred serfs. But is he very aged? How old is he?'

'Eighty, your Excellency. But it is a private matter, I should be …' Tchitchikov looked significantly at the general, and at the same time glanced out of the corner of his eye at the valet.

'You can go, my good man. You can come back presently.' The whiskered giant withdrew.

'Yes, your Excellency … It's such a queer business, your Excellency, that I should prefer to keep it quiet. …'