“Hallo!” said he, “the staircase is warmed.”
“Of course,” replied Campardon. “All landlords who have the least self-respect go to that expense now. The house is a very fine one, very fine.”
He looked about him as though he were sounding the walls with his architect’s eyes.
“My dear fellow, you will see, it is a most comfortable place, and inhabited solely by highly respectable people!”
Then, slowly ascending, he mentioned the names of the different tenants. On each floor were two separate suites of apartments, one looking on to the street, the other on to the courtyard, and the polished mahogany doors of which faeed eaeh other. He began by saying a few words respecting Monsieur Auguste Vabre; he was the landlord’s eldest son; since the spring he had rented the silk warehouse on the ground floor, and he also occupied the whole of the “entresol” above. Then, on the first floor the landlord’s other son, Monsieur Théophile Vabre and his wife, resided in the apartment overlooking the courtyard; and in the one overlooking the street lived the landlord himself, formerly a notary at Versailles, but who was now lodging with his son-in-law, Monsieur Duveyrier, a judge at the Court of Appeal.
“A fellow who is not yet forty-five,” said Campardon, stopping short. “That’s something remarkable, is it not?”
He ascended two steps, and then suddenly turning round, he added:
“Water and gas on every floor.”
Beneath the tall window on each landing, the panes of which, bordered with fretwork, lit up the staircase with a white light, was placed a narrow velvet covered bench. The architect observed that elderly persons could sit down and rest. Then, as he passed the second floor without naming the tenants.
“And there?” asked Octave, pointing to the door of the principal suite.