Wilkie called out: "Philippe! eh, Philippe!--bring me the man who
picked up my hat."
"Ah!" said Chupin, "you see, m'sieur, that he asks for me."
"Very well," said Philippe. "Go on, then." And raising the
portiere he pushed Chupin into room No. 6.
It was a small, square apartment, with a very low ceiling. The
temperature was like that of a furnace, and the glare of the
gaslights almost blinded one. The supper was over, but the table
had not yet been cleared, and plates full of leavings showed that
the guests had fairly exhausted their appetites. Still, with the
exception of M. Wilkie, every one present seemed to be terribly
bored. In one corner, with her head resting on a piano, sat one
of the yellow-haired damsels, fast asleep, while, beside the
window, M. de Coralth was smoking with his elbows propped upon the
table. The four other young men were looking on phlegmatically.
"Ah! here's my hat," exclaimed M. Wilkie, as soon as Chupin
appeared. "Wait and receive your promised reward." And thereupon
he rang the bell, crying at the top of his voice: "Henry, you
sleepy-head--a clean glass and some more of the widow Cliquot's
champagne!"
Several bottles were standing upon the table, only half empty, and
one of M. Wilkie's friends called his attention to this fact, but
he shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. "You must take me for a
fool," he said, contemptuously. "A man doesn't drink stale wine
when he has the prospect of such an inheritance as is coming to me"
"Wilkie!" interrupted M.
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