XI.
Having almost reached the goal, Chupin slackened his pace. He
approached the shop very cautiously and peered inside, deeming it
prudent to reconnoitre a little before he went in. And certainly
there was nothing to prevent a prolonged scrutiny. The night was
very dark, the quay deserted. No one was to be seen; not a sound
broke the stillness. The darkness, the surroundings, and the
silence were sinister enough to make even Chupin shudder, though
he was usually as thoroughly at home in the loneliest and most
dangerous by-ways of Paris as an honest man of the middle classes
would be in the different apartments of his modest household.
"That scoundrel's wife must have less than a hundred thousand a
year if she takes up her abode here!" thought Chupin.
And, in fact, nothing could be more repulsive than the tenement in
which Madame Paul had installed herself. It was but one story
high, and built of clay, and it had fallen to ruin to such an
extent that it had been found necessary to prop it up with timber,
and to nail some old boards over the yawning fissures in the
walls. "If I lived here, I certainly shouldn't feel quite at ease
on a windy day," continued Chupin, sotto voce.
The shop itself was of a fair size, but most wretched in its
appointments, and disgustingly dirty. The floor was covered with
that black and glutinous coal-dust which forms the soil of the
Quai de la Seine.
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