And in prison you remain until your case comes on, when the justice orders you to be removed from Tsarev-Kokshaika to such and such another prison, and a second justice orders you to be transferred thence to Vesiegonsk or somewhere else, and you go flitting from gaol to gaol, and saying each time, as you eye your new habitation, 'The last place was a good deal cleaner than this one is, and one could play babki [31] there, and stretch one's legs, and see a little society.'" "'Abakum Thirov,'" Chichikov went on after a pause.

"What of YOU, brother?
Where, and in what capacity, are YOU disporting yourself?
Have you gone to the Volga country, and become bitten with the life of freedom, and joined the fishermen of the river ?" Here, breaking off, Chichikov relapsed into silent meditation.

Of what was he thinking as he sat there?
Was he thinking of the fortunes of Abakum Thirov, or was he meditating as meditates every Russian when his thoughts once turn to the joys of an emancipated existence?
"Ah, well!" he sighed, looking at his watch.

"It has now gone twelve o'clock.

Why have I so forgotten myself?
There is still much to be done, yet I go shutting myself up and letting my thoughts wander! What a fool I am!" So saying, he exchanged his Scottish costume (of a shirt and nothing else) for attire of a more European nature; after which he pulled tight the waistcoat over his ample stomach, sprinkled himself with eau-de-Cologne, tucked his papers under his arm, took his fur cap, and set out for the municipal offices, for the purpose of completing the transfer of souls.