And taking the topmost note from the bundle he held it out to Pyotr Ilyitch.
“But I shan’t have change enough. Haven’t you less?”
“No,” said Mitya, looking again at the bundle, and as though not trusting his own words he turned over two or three of the topmost ones.
“No, they’re all alike,” he added, and again he looked inquiringly at Pyotr Ilyitch.
“How have you grown so rich?” the latter asked. “Wait, I’ll send my boy to Plotnikov’s, they close late—to see if they won’t change it. Here, Misha!” he called into the passage.
“To Plotnikov’s shop—first-rate!” cried Mitya, as though struck by an idea. “Misha,” he turned to the boy as he came in, “look here, run to Plotnikov’s and tell them that Dmitri Fyodorovitch sends his greetings, and will be there directly. … But listen, listen, tell them to have champagne, three dozen bottles, ready before I come, and packed as it was to take to Mokroe. I took four dozen with me then,” he added (suddenly addressing Pyotr Ilyitch); “they know all about it, don’t you trouble, Misha,” he turned again to the boy. “Stay, listen; tell them to put in cheese, Strasburg pies, smoked fish, ham, caviar, and everything, everything they’ve got, up to a hundred roubles, or a hundred and twenty as before. … But wait: don’t let them forget dessert, sweets, pears, watermelons, two or three or four—no, one melon’s enough, and chocolate, candy, toffee, fondants; in fact, everything I took to Mokroe before, three hundred roubles’ worth with the champagne … let it be just the same again. And remember, Misha, if you are called Misha—His name is Misha, isn’t it?” He turned to Pyotr Ilyitch again.
“Wait a minute,” Protr Ilyitch intervened, listening and watching him uneasily, “you’d better go yourself and tell them. He’ll muddle it.”