CHAPTER XII
A PASSIONATE WOMAN—A POET'S DREAM
The frost had vanished in the night. It was a warm spring morning and there were noises in the bedroom as though a horse were neighing and snorting: It was Hippolyte, who was washing himself. He was in a good mood. Bender was still in bed.
'By the way,' said Bender, 'I must ask you to settle your debt.'
Hippolyte tossed his towel to one side and glared at his partner.
'Why are you staring at me as if I were a louse? What are you so surprised about? The debt? It's quite right, you owe me money. I forgot to tell you night that I paid for the confiscation orders in accordance with your wishes. I paid seventy roubles. Here's the receipt. Toss over thirty-five roubles! Since we're partners, the expenses had better be fifty-fifty.'
Hippolyte put on his pince-nez, read the receipt, and grudgingly paid the money, but not even that could throw a shadow over his happiness. The treasure was his. The thirty-five roubles were dust in comparison with the mountain of diamonds.
Hippolyte was smiling radiantly as he went into the corridor and began to walk up and down. Plans for a comfortable life came into his head, and he chuckled to himself at the thought of Father Theodore. 'The fool remains a fool. He's no more likely to get those chairs, or even a sight of them, than he is ever to see his beard again.'
He turned round when he got to the end of the corridor, The white door of room Number 13 opened
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