“Madam, madam!” Dmitri interrupted with an uneasy presentiment. “I shall indeed, perhaps, follow your advice, your wise advice, madam. … I shall perhaps set off … to the goldmines. … I’ll come and see you again about it … many times, indeed … but now, that three thousand you so generously … oh, that would set me free, and if you could today … you see, I haven’t a minute, a minute to lose today—”
“Enough, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, enough!” Madame Hohlakov interrupted emphatically. “The question is, will you go to the goldmines or not; have you quite made up your mind? Answer yes or no.”
“I will go, madam, afterwards. … I’ll go where you like … but now—”
“Wait!” cried Madame Hohlakov. And jumping up and running to a handsome bureau with numerous little drawers, she began pulling out one drawer after another, looking for something with desperate haste.
“The three thousand,” thought Mitya, his heart almost stopping, “and at the instant … without any papers or formalities … that’s doing things in gentlemanly style! She’s a splendid woman, if only she didn’t talk so much!”
“Here!” cried Madame Hohlakov, running back joyfully to Mitya, “here is what I was looking for!”
It was a tiny silver icon on a cord, such as is sometimes worn next the skin with a cross.
“This is from Kiev, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,” she went on reverently, “from the relics of the Holy Martyr, Varvara. Let me put it on your neck myself, and with it dedicate you to a new life, to a new career.”