“Yes, yes . . . fifteen—­I made a mistake,” said Shapkin in confusion.  “It’s all over and done with, though, it’s no use concealing it.  I gave her ten and the other five I collared for myself.  I deceived you both. . . .  It’s all over and done with, it’s no use to be ashamed.  And indeed, judge for yourself, Boris Petrovitch, weren’t you the very person for me to get money out of? . . .  You were a wealthy man and had everything you wanted. . . .  Your marriage was an idle whim, and so was your divorce.  You were making a lot of money. . . .  I remember you made a scoop of twenty thousand over one contract.  Whom should I have fleeced if not you?  And I must own I envied you.  If you grabbed anything they took off their caps to you, while they would thrash me for a rouble and slap me in the face at the club. . . .  But there, why recall it?  It is high time to forget it.”

“Tell me, please, how did Sofya Mihailovna get on afterwards?”

“With her ten thousand?  Very badly.  God knows what it was—­she lost her head, perhaps, or maybe her pride and her conscience tormented her at having sold her honour, or perhaps she loved you; but, do you know, she took to drink. . . .  As soon as she got her money she was off driving about with officers.  It was drunkenness, dissipation, debauchery. . . .  When she went to a restaurant with officers she was not content with port or anything light, she must have strong brandy, fiery stuff to stupefy her.”

“Yes, she was eccentric. . . .  I had a lot to put up with from her . . . sometimes she would take offence at something and begin being hysterical. . . .  And what happened afterwards?”

“One week passed and then another. . . .  I was sitting at home, writing something.  All at once the door opened and she walked in . . . drunk.  ‘Take back your cursed money,’ she said, and flung a roll of notes in my face. . . .  So she could not keep it up.  I picked up the notes and counted them.  It was five hundred short of the ten thousand, so she had only managed to get through five hundred.”

“Where did you put the money?”

“It’s all ancient history . . . there’s no reason to conceal it now. . . .  In my pocket, of course.  Why do you look at me like that?  Wait a bit for what will come later. . . .  It’s a regular novel, a pathological study.  A couple of months later I was going home one night in a nasty drunken condition. . . .  I lighted a candle, and lo and behold!  Sofya Mihailovna was sitting on my sofa, and she was drunk, too, and in a frantic state—­as wild as though she had run out of Bedlam.  ‘Give me back my money,’ she said, ’I have changed my mind; if I must go to ruin I won’t do it by halves, I’ll have my fling!  Be quick, you scoundrel, give me my money!’ A disgraceful scene!”

“And you . . . gave it her?”

“I gave her, I remember, ten roubles.”

“Oh!  How could you?” cried Uzelkov, frowning.  “If you couldn’t or wouldn’t have given it her, you might have written to me. . . .  And I didn’t know!  I didn’t know!”