The gouty gentleman had followed the boulevards, walking toward the small theatres; when I say small theatres, I do it in accordance with an old habit, which it would be well to lay aside. Indeed, there are on Boulevard du Temple theatres which are very far from being small; and then too, even at the small ones sometimes they give works which are much superior to those which are played at the large ones.
The gentleman turned into Rue Charlot, in the heart of the Marais, walking very slowly, because of his lame foot, and also because he never failed to stop and turn around whenever a pretty face passed; which caused Chicotin to say:
“This old boy seems to be a connoisseur! I ought to have let myself out by the hour, and I should have made a handsome thing of it!”
The gentleman finally stopped in front of a small furnished lodging house, of very modest appearance, on Rue de Bretagne. He turned to the messenger and said with a smile:
“Here we are, this is my hotel. It doesn’t come up to Hôtel Meurice, or even to Hôtel des Ambassadeurs! Other times, other hotels.—Follow me.”
Chicotin followed the gentleman, who went up to the third floor and entered a room comfortably furnished, but without taste or style or harmony; the bed was mahogany, the bureau oak, and the chairs walnut; the bed curtains were modern in style; but there were curtains at the windows which were suitable for a peasant’s cottage at best; in short, all the articles of furniture seemed to swear at finding themselves together, and the occupant of the room also made a wry face at finding himself surrounded by such things.
He threw himself down on a sort of couch, on which castors had been put to give it some resemblance to an easy-chair à la Voltaire, and said to the young messenger who had remained in the middle of the room:
“Well, what do you say to this? It is magnificent, isn’t it?”
Chicotin shook his head as he replied:
“Well! it isn’t bad, but I’ve seen better.”