Then he, Victor Chupin,
who had, it seems to me, but one aim in life--to become rich--
Victor Chupin, who loved money above anything else, and had
stifled all other passions in his soul--he who often worked two
whole days to earn five francs--he who did not disdain to claim
his five sous when he went to hire a cab for his employer--he,
Chupin, twisted the bank-note in his fingers, lit it at the gas,
and used it to light his cigar.
"Ah! he's crazy!" murmured the yellow-haired damsels, with despair
in their voices.
But M. Wilkie was enthusiastic. "There's form!" said he. "Fine
form and no mistake!"
But Chupin did not even deign to turn his head. He opened the
door, and standing on the threshold, he bowed to M. de Coralth
with an ironical smile. "Until we meet again, Monsieur Paul,"
said he. "And kindly remember me to Madame Paul, if you please."
If the others had been less astonished, they would have no doubt
have remarked the prodigious effect of this name upon their
brilliant friend. He became ghastly pale and fell back in his
chair. Then, suddenly, he bounded up as if he wished to attack
his enemy. But pursuit seemed likely to yield no result, for
Chupin was already on the boulevard.
It was daybreak. Paris was waking up; the bakers were standing at
their doors, and boys in their shirt-sleeves, with their eyes
swollen with sleep, were taking down the shutters of the wine-
shops. A cloud of dust, raised by the street-sweepers, hung in
the distance; the rag-pickers wandered about, peering among the
rubbish; the noisy milk-carts jolted along at a gallop, and
workmen were proceeding to their daily toil, with hunches of bread
in their hands.
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