“Confound it! An old woman, an old man. … Have you killed someone?”
“We made it up. We had a row—and made it up. In a place I know of. We parted friends. A fool. … He’s forgiven me. … He’s sure to have forgiven me by now … if he had got up, he wouldn’t have forgiven me”—Mitya suddenly winked—“only damn him, you know, I say, Pyotr Ilyitch, damn him! Don’t worry about him! I don’t want to just now!” Mitya snapped out, resolutely.
“Whatever do you want to go picking quarrels with everyone for? … Just as you did with that captain over some nonsense. … You’ve been fighting and now you’re rushing off on the spree—that’s you all over! Three dozen champagne—what do you want all that for?”
“Bravo! Now give me the pistols. Upon my honor I’ve no time now. I should like to have a chat with you, my dear boy, but I haven’t the time. And there’s no need, it’s too late for talking. Where’s my money? Where have I put it?” he cried, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
“You put it on the table … yourself. … Here it is. Had you forgotten? Money’s like dirt or water to you, it seems. Here are your pistols. It’s an odd thing, at six o’clock you pledged them for ten roubles, and now you’ve got thousands. Two or three I should say.”
“Three, you bet,” laughed Mitya, stuffing the notes into the side-pocket of his trousers.
“You’ll lose it like that. Have you found a goldmine?”
“The mines? The goldmines?” Mitya shouted at the top of his voice and went off into a roar of laughter. “Would you like to go to the mines, Perhotin? There’s a lady here who’ll stump up three thousand for you, if only you’ll go. She did it for me, she’s so awfully fond of goldmines. Do you know Madame Hohlakov?”