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 gold-mine?"

"The mines? The gold-mines?" 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 gold-mines. Do
you know Madame Hohlakov?"

"I don't know her, but I've heard of her and seen her. Did she really give
you three thousand? Did she really?" said Pyotr Ilyitch, eyeing him
dubiously.

"As soon as the sun rises to-morrow, as soon as Phoebus, ever young, flies
upwards, praising and glorifying God, you go to her, this Madame Hohlakov,
and ask her whether she did stump up that three thousand or not. Try and
find out."

"I don't know on what terms you are ... since you say it so positively, I
suppose she did give it to you. You've got the money in your hand, but
instead of going to Siberia you're spending it all.... Where are you
really off to now, eh?"

"To Mokroe."

"To Mokroe? But it's night!"

"Once the lad had all, now the lad has naught," cried Mitya suddenly.

"How 'naught'? You say that with all those thousands!"

"I'm not talking about thousands. Damn thousands! I'm talking of the
female character.

Fickle is the heart of woman
Treacherous and full of vice;

I agree with Ulysses. That's what he says."

"I don't understand you!"

"Am I drunk?"

"Not drunk, but worse."

"I'm drunk in spirit, Pyotr Ilyitch, drunk in spirit! But that's enough!"

"What are you doing, loading the pistol?"

"I'm loading the pistol."

Unfastening the pistol-case, Mitya actually opened the powder horn, and
carefully sprinkled and rammed in the charge. Then he took the bullet and,
before inserting it, held it in two fingers in front of the candle.