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“It’s not that they thrashed me exactly, but what I mean is—” put in Maximov. “What do you mean? Either they thrashed you or they didn’t.” “What o’clock is it, panie?” the Pole, with the pipe, asked his tall friend, with a bored expression. The other shrugged his shoulders in reply. Neither of them had a watch. “Why not talk? Let other people talk.
“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 to-morrow.... Besides, I haven’t the three thousand with me.
“What my queen commands is law!” pronounced the Pole, gallantly kissing Grushenka’s hand. “I beg you, panie, to join our company,” he added politely, addressing Mitya. Mitya was jumping up with the obvious intention of delivering another tirade, but the words did not come. “Let’s drink, panie,” he blurted out instead of making a speech. Every one laughed. “Good heavens!
Only till morning, for the last time, in this same room?” So he finished, turning to the fat little man, with the pipe, sitting on the sofa. The latter removed his pipe from his lips with dignity and observed severely: “Panie, we’re here in private. There are other rooms.” “Why, it’s you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch! What do you mean?” answered Kalganov suddenly. “Sit down with us. How are you?”
Here’s the door, you go out of it. What have you got there, a great-coat, a fur coat? I’ll bring it out to you. They’ll get the horses out directly, and then—good-by, panie!” Mitya awaited an answer with assurance. He had no doubts. An expression of extraordinary resolution passed over the Pole’s face. “And the money, panie?” “The money, panie?
The effects of the glass she had just drunk were apparent. Mitya was terribly alarmed. “Panovie, forgive me! It was my fault, I’m sorry. Vrublevsky, panie Vrublevsky, I’m sorry.” “Hold your tongue, you, anyway! Sit down, you stupid!” Grushenka scolded with angry annoyance. Every one sat down, all were silent, looking at one another.
Take it and go your way.” The Pole gazed open-eyed at Mitya, with a searching look. “Three thousand, panie?” He exchanged glances with Vrublevsky. “Three, panovie, three! Listen, panie, I see you’re a sensible man. Take three thousand and go to the devil, and Vrublevsky with you—d’you hear? But, at once, this very minute, and for ever. You understand that, panie, for ever.
Before you came, Mitya, they were just as silent and kept turning up their noses at me.” “My goddess!” cried the Pole on the sofa, “I see you’re not well-disposed to me, that’s why I’m gloomy. I’m ready, panie,” added he, addressing Mitya. “Begin, panie,” Mitya assented, pulling his notes out of his pocket, and laying two hundred-rouble notes on the table. “I want to lose a lot to you.
“The pan had no luck, perhaps he’ll be lucky this time,” the Pole on the sofa observed in his direction. “How much in the bank? To correspond?” asked Mitya. “That’s according, panie, maybe a hundred, maybe two hundred, as much as you will stake.” “A million!” laughed Mitya. “The Pan Captain has heard of Pan Podvysotsky, perhaps?” “What Podvysotsky?”
“In Warsaw there was a bank and any one comes and stakes against it. Podvysotsky comes, sees a thousand gold pieces, stakes against the bank. The banker says, ‘Panie Podvysotsky, are you laying down the gold, or must we trust to your honor?’ ‘To my honor, panie,’ says Podvysotsky. ‘So much the better.’ The banker throws the dice.
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