'What am I to say to him?' thought Tchitchikov, and after a minute's reflection he informed him he needed the dead souls to obtain a position in society, that at present he had not big estates, so that until he had, he would be glad of souls of any sort.
'That's a lie, that's a lie!' said Nozdryov, not allowing him to finish. 'That's a lie, old man!'
Tchitchikov himself realised that his fiction was not very plausible and that the pretext was rather a feeble one.
'Oh, very well, then I will tell you straight out,' he said, to set himself right, 'only please don't speak of it to any one. I am going to get married, but I must tell you that the father and mother of my betrothed are very ambitious people. It's a regular nuisance. I regret the engagement: they are set on their daughter's husband having at least three hundred souls, and as I am quite a hundred and fifty souls short of that …'
'Come, that's a lie, that's a lie,' cried Nozdryov again.
'I assure you,' said Tchitchikov, 'I haven't lied this little bit,' and he pointed with his thumb to the top of his little finger.
'I bet my head you are lying!'
'This is really insulting. What do you take me for? Why are you so sure that I am lying?'
'Why, I know you, you see; you are a great rascal—let me tell you in a friendly way! If I were your chief, I'd hang you on the nearest tree.'
Tchitchikov was offended by this observation.
