“I should like it,” said I. “I have often wished I had a little more room, but, like you, I couldn’t afford the whole expense. We can have a piano, and the child can play there. Don’t you see?” I added, with great earnestness and touching his arm. “It is a large airy room; he can run about there, and make as much noise as he likes.”
He still seemed to hesitate.
“I can afford it,” said I. “I’ve no one but myself, unluckily. If you don’t object to my company, let us try it. We shall be neighbors in the orchestra.”
“So!”
“Why not at home too? I think it an excellent plan. Let us decide it so.”
I was very urgent about it. An hour ago I could not have conceived anything which could make me so urgent and set my heart beating so.
“If I did not think it would inconvenience you,” he began.
“Then it is settled?” said I. “Now let us go and see what kind of furniture there is in that big room.”
Without allowing him to utter any further objection, I dragged him to the large room, and we surveyed it. The woman, who for some unaccountable reason appeared to have recovered her good-temper in a marvelous manner, said quite cheerfully that she would send the maid to make the smaller room ready as a bedroom for two. “One of us won’t take much room,” said Courvoisier with a laugh, to which she assented with a smile, and then left us. The big room was long, low, and rather dark. Beams were across the ceiling, and two not very large windows looked upon the street below, across to two similar windows of another lodging-house, a little to the left of which was the Tonhalle. The floor was carpetless, but clean; there was a big square table, and some chairs.