d at the time), who for two days got money without stint out of
him while he was drunk, and drank expensive wine without stint. People
used to tell, laughing at Mitya, how he had given champagne to
grimy-handed peasants, and feasted the village women and girls on sweets
and Strasburg pies. Though to laugh at Mitya to his face was rather a
risky proceeding, there was much laughter behind his back, especially in
the tavern, at his own ingenuous public avowal that all he had got out of
Grushenka by this "escapade" was "permission to kiss her foot, and that
was the utmost she had allowed him."

By the time Mitya and Pyotr Ilyitch reached the shop, they found a cart
with three horses harnessed abreast with bells, and with Andrey, the
driver, ready waiting for Mitya at the entrance. In the shop they had
almost entirely finished packing one box of provisions, and were only
waiting for Mitya's arrival to nail it down and put it in the cart. Pyotr
Ilyitch was astounded.

"Where did this cart come from in such a hurry?" he asked Mitya.

"I met Andrey as I ran to you, and told him to drive straight here to the
shop. There's no time to lose. Last time I drove with Timofey, but Timofey
now has gone on before me with the witch. Shall we be very late, Andrey?"

"They'll only get there an hour at most before us, not even that maybe. I
got Timofey ready to start. I know how he'll go. Their pace won't be ours,
Dmitri Fyodorovitch. How could it be? They won't get there an hour
earlier!" Andrey, a lanky, red-haired, middle-aged driver, wearing a
full-skirted coat, and with a kaftan on his arm, replied warmly.

"Fifty roubles for vodka if we're only an hour behind them."

"I warrant the time, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. Ech, they won't be half an hour
before us, let alone an hour."

Though Mitya bustled about seeing after things, he gave his orders
strangely, as it were disconnectedly, and inconsecutively. He began a
sentence and forgot the end of it. Pyotr Ilyitch found himself obliged to
come to the rescue.

"Four hundred roubles' worth, not less than four hundred roubles' worth,
just as it was then," commanded Mitya. "Four dozen champagne, not a bottle
less."

"What do you want with so much? What's it for? Stay!" cried Pyotr Ilyitch.
"What's this box? What's in it? Surely there isn't four hundred roubles'
worth here?"

The officious shopmen began explaining with oily politeness that the first
box contained only half a dozen bottles o