They could not see a step before them; the
mud was ankle-deep, and not a person, not a solitary soul was
visible.
"Are we almost there?" M. Fortunat asked every ten paces.
"Almost there, m'sieur."
Chupin said this; but to tell the truth, he knew nothing about it.
He tried to discover where he was, but did not succeed. Houses
were becoming scanty, and vacant plots of building ground more
numerous; it was only with the greatest difficulty that one could
occasionally discern a light. At last, however, after a quarter
of an hour's hard struggling, Chupin uttered a joyful cry. "Here
we are, m'sieur--look!" said he.
A large building, five stories high, sinister of aspect, and
standing quite alone, could just be distinguished in the darkness.
It was already falling to pieces, and yet it was not entirely
completed. Plainly enough, the speculator who had undertaken the
enterprise had not been rich enough to complete it. On seeing the
many closely pierced windows of the facade, a passer-by could not
fail to divine for what purpose the building had been erected; and
in order that no one should remain in ignorance of it, this
inscription: "Furnished Rooms," figured in letters three feet
high, between the third and fourth floors. The inside
arrangements could be easily divined: innumerable rooms, all small
and inconvenient, and let out at exorbitant rentals.
However, Victor Chupin's memory had misled him.
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