The shopman, a sprightly little Frenchified figure with rounded belly and white waistcoat, displayed the revolvers, and smiling respectfully and scraping with his little feet observed: 

“. . .  I would advise you, M’sieur, to take this superb revolver, the Smith and Wesson pattern, the last word in the science of firearms:  triple-action, with ejector, kills at six hundred paces, central sight.  Let me draw your attention, M’sieu, to the beauty of the finish.  The most fashionable system, M’sieu.  We sell a dozen every day for burglars, wolves, and lovers.  Very correct and powerful action, hits at a great distance, and kills wife and lover with one bullet.  As for suicide, M’sieu, I don’t know a better pattern.”

The shopman pulled and cocked the trigger, breathed on the barrel, took aim, and affected to be breathless with delight.  Looking at his ecstatic countenance, one might have supposed that he would readily have put a bullet through his brains if he had only possessed a revolver of such a superb pattern as a Smith-Wesson.

“And what price?” asked Sigaev.

“Forty-five roubles, M’sieu.”

“Mm! . . . that’s too dear for me.”

“In that case, M’sieu, let me offer you another make, somewhat cheaper.  Here, if you’ll kindly look, we have an immense choice, at all prices. . . .  Here, for instance, this revolver of the Lefaucher pattern costs only eighteen roubles, but . . .” (the shopman pursed up his face contemptuously) “. . . but, M’sieu, it’s an old-fashioned make.  They are only bought by hysterical ladies or the mentally deficient.  To commit suicide or shoot one’s wife with a Lefaucher revolver is considered bad form nowadays.  Smith-Wesson is the only pattern that’s correct style.”

“I don’t want to shoot myself or to kill anyone,” said Sigaev, lying sullenly.  “I am buying it simply for a country cottage . . . to frighten away burglars. . . .”

“That’s not our business, what object you have in buying it.”  The shopman smiled, dropping his eyes discreetly.  “If we were to investigate the object in each case, M’sieu, we should have to close our shop.  To frighten burglars Lefaucher is not a suitable pattern, M’sieu, for it goes off with a faint, muffled sound.  I would suggest Mortimer’s, the so-called duelling pistol. . . .”

“Shouldn’t I challenge him to a duel?” flashed through Sigaev’s mind.  “It’s doing him too much honour, though. . . .  Beasts like that are killed like dogs. . . .”

The shopman, swaying gracefully and tripping to and fro on his little feet, still smiling and chattering, displayed before him a heap of revolvers.  The most inviting and impressive of all was the Smith and Wesson’s.  Sigaev picked up a pistol of that pattern, gazed blankly at it, and sank into brooding.  His imagination pictured how he would blow out their brains, how blood would flow in streams over the rug and the parquet, how the traitress’s legs would twitch in her last agony. . . .  But that was not enough for his indignant soul.  The picture of blood, wailing, and horror did not satisfy him.  He must think of something more terrible.