Petrovich took the cape, spread it on the table, examined it for a long time, shook his head, and reached out his hand towards the window-sill for his round snuff-box, on the lid of which was the portrait of some general or other, whose identity was lost, however, because a finger had been thrust straight through the face and the hole glued over with a square bit of paper. Having taken a pinch of snuff, Petrovich held up and examined the cape against the light, and again shook his head; then turned it, lining upwards, and once more shook his head. Again he removed the lid of his snuff-box, and, having applied some of its contents to his nose, he pocketed the case, and finally said: “No, it is impossible to mend it. It’s a miserable garment!” Akaki Akakievich’s heart sank at these words. “And why impossible, Petrovich?” he asked in a voice almost that of an imploring child. “There’s nothing--only a bit worn-out at the shoulders. You surely have some pieces----” “It’s easy enough to find pieces,” answered Petrovich, “but how is one to sew them on? The cloth is all rotten. Put a needle to it--and it goes apart.” “Let it; you can put another patch there.” “There’s nothing to lay the patches on; there’s no way of strengthening it--it is beyond all help. You may thank the stars that it’s cloth; or else a wind would come along and blow it away.” “Well, yes, better strengthen it. How is it, in fact, this----” “No,” said Petrovich decisively, “nothing can be done. It’s a thoroughly bad job. You’d better make gaiters out of it for cold winter days, because stockings are not sufficiently warm. The Germans invented them, in order to make more money.” (Petrovich took advantage of every opportunity to make thrusts at the Germans.) “As for the cloak, it’s quite evident you want a new one.” At the word _new_ all grew dark before the eyes of Akaki Akakievich, and everything in the room began to go round. Only one object he saw clearly: the general with the mutilated face on the lid of Petrovich’s snuff-box. “How a new one?” he asked, as if he were in a dream. “Why, I have no money for it.” “Yes, a new one,” repeated Petrovich, with a savage calm. “Well, and if I order a new one, how will it----?” “That is, you want to know how much it would cost?” “Yes.” “Well, you’d have to put down a hundred and fifty,” said Petrovich, and compressed his lips significantly. He liked powerful effects, he liked to stun suddenly and completely, and then to look askance in order to see what kind of face the victim might make after such words. “A hundred and fifty rubles for a cloak!” shrieked the poor Akaki Akakievich, perhaps for the first time since his birth, for he had always been distinguished for the subdued quality of his voice. “Yes-s,” said Petrovich; “and that’s for a cheap one. If you wish a bit of marten fur on the collar, and to line the hood with silk, it will mount up to two hundred.”