On hearing this order, Chupin shook his clenched fist at the
stars. "The wretches!" he muttered through his set teeth; "bad
luck to them! Those oysters are for their mouths, plainly enough,
for there are eight of them in all, counting those yellow-haired
women. They will, no doubt, remain at table until six o'clock in
the morning. And they call this enjoying themselves. And
meanwhile, poor little Chupin must wear out his shoe-leather on
the pavement. Ah! they shall pay for this!"
It ought to have been some consolation to him to see that he was
not alone in his misery, for in front of the restaurant stood a
dozen cabs with sleepy drivers, who were waiting for chance to
send them one of those half-intoxicated passengers who refuse to
pay more than fifteen sous for their fare, but give their Jehu a
gratuity of a louis. All these vehicles belonged to the peculiar
category known as "night cabs"--dilapidated conveyances with
soiled, ragged linings, and drawn by half-starved, jaded horses.
However, Chupin neither thought of these vehicles, nor of the poor
horses, nor, indeed, of the drivers themselves. His wrath had
been succeeded by philosophical resignation; he accepted with good
grace what he could not avoid. As the night air had become very
cool, he turned up the collar of his overcoat, and began to pace
to and fro on the pavement in front of the restaurant. He had
made a hundred turns perhaps, passing the events of the day in
review, when suddenly such a strange and startling idea flashed
across his mind that he stood motionless, lost in astonishment.
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