"How many of our serfs have died since the last census revision ?" "How many of them have died?
Why, a great many." The bailiff hiccoughed, and slapped his mouth lightly after doing so.
"Yes, I imagined that to be the case," corroborated Manilov.

"In fact, a VERY great many serfs have died." He turned to Chichikov and repeated the words.
"How many, for instance ?" asked Chichikov.
"Yes; how many ?" re-echoed Manilov.
"HOW many ?" re-echoed the bailiff.

"Well, no one knows the exact number, for no one has kept any account." "Quite so," remarked Manilov.

"I supposed the death-rate to have been high, but was ignorant of its precise extent." "Then would you be so good as to have it computed for me ?" said Chichikov.

"And also to have a detailed list of the deaths made out ?" "Yes, I will--a detailed list," agreed Manilov.
"Very well." The bailiff departed.
"For what purpose do you want it ?" inquired Manilov when the bailiff had gone.
The question seemed to embarrass the guest, for in Chichikov's face there dawned a sort of tense expression, and it reddened as though its owner were striving to express something not easy to put into words.
True enough, Manilov was now destined to hear such strange and unexpected things as never before had greeted human ears.
"You ask me," said Chichikov, "for what purpose I want the list.