"Panie Kalganov, in gentlemanly society one doesn't say such things.""As if a Polish gambler would give away a million!" cried Mitya, but checked himself at once."Forgive me, panie, it's my fault again; he would, he would give away a million, for honour, for Polish honour.You see how I talk Polish, ha ha! Here, I stake ten roubles, the knave leads.""And I put a rouble on the queen, the queen of hearts, the pretty little panienotchka* he! he!" laughed Maximov, pulling out his queen, and, as though trying to conceal it from everyone, he moved right up and crossed himself hurriedly under the table.Mitya won.The rouble won, too.
* Little miss.
"A corner!" cried Mitya.
"I'll bet another rouble, a 'single' stake," Maximov muttered gleefully, hugely delighted at having won a rouble.
"Lost!" shouted Mitya."A 'double' on the seven!"The seven too was trumped.
"Stop!" cried Kalganov suddenly.
"Double! Double!" Mitya doubled his stakes, and each time he doubled the stake, the card he doubled was trumped by the Poles.The rouble stakes kept winning.
"On the double!" shouted Mitya furiously.
"You've lost two hundred, panie.Will you stake another hundred?" the Pole on the sofa inquired.
"What? Lost two hundred already? Then another two hundred! All doubles!" And pulling his money out of his pocket, Mitya was about to fling two hundred roubles on the queen, but Kalgonov covered it with his hand.
"That's enough!" he shouted in his ringing voice.
"What's the matter?" Mitya stared at him.
"That's enough! I don't want you to play anymore.Don't!""Why?"
"Because I don't.Hang it, come away.That's why.I won't let you go on playing."Mitya gazed at him in astonishment.
"Give it up, Mitya.He may be right.You've lost a lot as it is," said Grushenka, with a curious note in her voice.Both the Poles rose from their seats with a deeply offended air.
"Are you joking, panie?" said the short man, looking severely at Kalganov.
"How dare you!" Pan Vrublevsky, too, growled at Kalganov.
"Don't dare to shout like that," cried Grushenka."Ah, you turkey-cocks!"Mitya looked at each of them in turn.But something in Grushenka's face suddenly struck him, and at the same instant something new flashed into his mind- a strange new thought!
"Pani Agrippina," the little Pole was beginning, crimson with anger, when Mitya suddenly went up to him and slapped him on the shoulder.
"Most illustrious, two words with you."cried Grushenka.
"What do you want?"
"In the next room, I've two words to say to you, something pleasant, very pleasant.You'll be glad to hear it."The little pan was taken aback and looked apprehensively at Mitya.
He agreed at once, however, on condition that Pan Vrublevsky went with them.
"The bodyguard? Let him come, and I want him, too.I must have him!" cried Mitya."March, panovie!""Where are you going?" asked Grushenka, anxiously.
"We'll be back in one moment," answered Mitya.
There was a sort of boldness, a sudden confidence shining in his eyes.His face had looked very different when he entered the room an hour before.
He led the Poles, not into the large room where the chorus of girls was assembling and the table was being laid, but into the bedroom on the right, where the trunks and packages were kept, and there were two large beds, with pyramids of cotton pillows on each.
There was a lighted candle on a small deal table in the corner.The small man and Mitya sat down to this table, facing each other, while the huge Vrublevsky stood beside them, his hands behind his back.
The Poles looked severe but were evidently inquisitive.
"What can I do for you, panie?" lisped the little Pole.
"Well, look here, panie, I won't keep you long.There's money for you," he pulled out his notes."Would you like three thousand?
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.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-bye, 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? Five hundred roubles I'll give you this moment for the journey, and as a first instalment, and two thousand five hundred to-morrow, in the town- I swear on my honour, 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 to-morrow....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, recognising 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.
