It was
very simple. He had only to cross the first courtyard, take
staircase D, on the left-hand side, ascend to the sixth floor, go
straight ahead, etc., etc.
Thanks to this unusual civility, M. Fortunat did not lose his way
more than five times before reaching the door upon which was
fastened a bit of pasteboard bearing Victor Chupin's name.
Noticing that a bell-rope hung beside the door, M. Fortunat pulled
it, whereupon there was a tinkling, and a voice called out, "Come
in!" He complied, and found himself in a small and cheaply
furnished room, which was, however, radiant with the cleanliness
which is in itself a luxury. The waxed floor shone like a mirror;
the furniture was brilliantly polished, and the counterpane and
curtains of the bed were as white as snow. What first attracted
the agent's attention was the number of superfluous articles
scattered about the apartment--some plaster statuettes on either
side of a gilt clock, an etagere crowded with knickknacks, and
five or six passable engravings. When he entered, Victor Chupin
was sitting, in his shirt-sleeves, at a little table, where, by
the light of a small lamp, and with a zeal that brought a flush to
his cheeks, he was copying, in a very fair hand a page from a
French dictionary. Near the bed, in the shade, sat a poorly but
neatly clad woman about forty years of age, who was knitting
industriously with some long wooden needles.
"M.
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