“And the money, panie ?”
“The money, panie ? Five hundred roubles I’ll give you this moment for the journey, and as a first installment, and two thousand five hundred tomorrow, in the town—I swear on my honor, I’ll get it, I’ll get it at any cost!” cried Mitya.
The Poles exchanged glances again. The short man’s face looked more forbidding.
“Seven hundred, seven hundred, not five hundred, at once, this minute, cash down!” Mitya added, feeling something wrong. “What’s the matter, panie ? Don’t you trust me? I can’t give you the whole three thousand straight off. If I give it, you may come back to her tomorrow. … Besides, I haven’t the three thousand with me. I’ve got it at home in the town,” faltered Mitya, his spirit sinking at every word he uttered. “Upon my word, the money’s there, hidden.”
In an instant an extraordinary sense of personal dignity showed itself in the little man’s face.
“What next?” he asked ironically. “For shame!” and he spat on the floor. Pan Vrublevsky spat too.
“You do that, panie ,” said Mitya, recognizing with despair that all was over, “because you hope to make more out of Grushenka? You’re a couple of capons, that’s what you are!”
“This is a mortal insult!” The little Pole turned as red as a crab, and he went out of the room, briskly, as though unwilling to hear another word. Vrublevsky swung out after him, and Mitya followed, confused and crestfallen. He was afraid of Grushenka, afraid that the pan would at once raise an outcry. And so indeed he did. The Pole walked into the room and threw himself in a theatrical attitude before Grushenka.