Petrovich took the cloak, spread it out, to begin with, on the table, looked at it hard, shook his head, reached out his hand to the window-sill for his snuff-box, adorned with the portrait of some general, though what general is unknown, for the place where the face should have been had been rubbed through by the finger and a square bit of paper had been pasted over it.  Having taken a pinch of snuff, Petrovich held up the cloak, and inspected it against the light, and again shook his head.  Then he turned it, lining upwards, and shook his head once more.  After which he again lifted the general-adorned lid with its bit of pasted paper, and having stuffed his nose with snuff, dosed and put away the snuff-box, and said finally, “No, it is impossible to mend it.  It is a wretched garment!”

Akaky Akakiyevich’s heart sank at these words.

“Why is it impossible, Petrovich?” he said, almost in the pleading voice of a child.  “All that ails it is, that it is worn on the shoulders.  You must have some pieces—­”

“Yes, patches could be found, patches are easily found,” said Petrovich, “but there’s nothing to sew them to.  The thing is completely rotten.  If you put a needle to it—­see, it will give way.”

“Let it give way, and you can put on another patch at once.”

“But there is nothing to put the patches on to.  There’s no use in strengthening it.  It is too far gone.  It’s lucky that it’s cloth, for, if the wind were to blow, it would fly away.”

“Well, strengthen it again.  How this, in fact—­”

“No,” said Petrovich decisively, “there is nothing to be done with it.  It’s a thoroughly bad job.  You’d better, when the cold winter weather comes on, make yourself some gaiters out of it, because stockings are not warm.  The Germans invented them in order to make more money.”  Petrovich loved on all occasions to have a fling at the Germans.  “But it is plain you must have a new cloak.”

At the word “new” all grew dark before Akaky Akakiyevich’s eyes, and everything in the room began to whirl round.  The only thing he saw clearly was the general with the paper face on the lid of Petrovich’s snuff-box.  “A new one?” said he, as if still in a dream.  “Why, I have no money for that.”

“Yes, a new one,” said Petrovich, with barbarous composure.

“Well, if it came to a new one, how—­it—­”

“You mean how much would it cost?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you would have to lay out a hundred and fifty or more,” said Petrovich, and pursed up his lips significantly.  He liked to produce powerful effects, liked to stun utterly and suddenly, and then to glance sideways to see what face the stunned person would put on the matter.

“A hundred and fifty rubles for a cloak!” shrieked poor Akaky Akakiyevich, perhaps for the first time in his life, for his voice had always been distinguished for softness.

“Yes, sir,” said Petrovich, “for any kind of cloak.  If you have a marten fur on the collar, or a silk-lined hood, it will mount up to two hundred.”