d there. At the present moment the master of the house was engaged in
giving the cook orders for what, under the guise of an early breakfast,
promised to constitute a veritable dinner. You should have heard
Pietukh's behests! They would have excited the appetite of a corpse.

"Yes," he said, sucking his lips, and drawing a deep breath, "in the
first place, make a pasty in four divisions. Into one of the divisions
put the sturgeon's cheeks and some viaziga [46], and into another
division some buckwheat porridge, young mushrooms and onions,
sweet milk, calves' brains, and anything else that you may find
suitable--anything else that you may have got handy. Also, bake the
pastry to a nice brown on one side, and but lightly on the other. Yes,
and, as to the under side, bake it so that it will be all juicy and
flaky, so that it shall not crumble into bits, but melt in the mouth
like the softest snow that ever you heard of." And as he said this
Pietukh fairly smacked his lips.

"The devil take him!" muttered Chichikov, thrusting his head beneath the
bedclothes to avoid hearing more. "The fellow won't give one a chance to
sleep."

Nevertheless he heard through the blankets:

"And garnish the sturgeon with beetroot, smelts, peppered mushrooms,
young radishes, carrots, beans, and anything else you like, so as to
have plenty of trimmings. Yes, and put a lump of ice into the pig's
bladder, so as to swell it up."

Many other dishes did Pietukh order, and nothing was to be heard but
his talk of boiling, roasting, and stewing. Finally, just as mention was
being made of a turkey cock, Chichikov fell asleep.

Next morning the guest's state of repletion had reached the point
of Platon being unable to mount his horse; wherefore the latter was
dispatched homeward with one of Pietukh's grooms, and the two guests
entered Chichikov's koliaska. Even the dog trotted lazily in the rear;
for he, too, had over-eaten himself.

"It has been rather too much of a good thing," remarked Chichikov as the
vehicle issued from the courtyard.

"Yes, and it vexes me to see the fellow never tire of it," replied
Platon.

"Ah," thought Chichikov to himself, "if _I_ had an income of seventy
thousand roubles, as you have, I'd very soon give tiredness one in
the eye! Take Murazov, the tax-farmer--he, again, must be worth ten
millions. What a fortune!"

"Do you mind where we drive?" asked Platon. "I should like first to go
and take leave of my sister an