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. “Oh! there,” said he, “persons whom one never sees, whom no one knows. The house could well do without them. Blemishes, you know, are to be found everywhere.” He gave a little snort of contempt. “The gentleman writes books, I believe.” But on the third floor his smile of satisfaction reappeared. The apartments looking on to the courtyard were divided into two suites; they were occupied by Madame Juzeur, a little woman who was most unhappy, and a very distinguished gentleman who had taken a room to which he came once a week on business matters. Whilst giving these particulars, Campardon opened the door on the other side of the landing. “And this is where I live,” resumed he. “Wait a moment, I must get your key. We will first go up to your room; you can see my wife afterwards.” During the two minutes he was left alone, Octave felt penetrated by the grave silence of the staircase. He leant over the balustrade, in the warm air which ascended from the vestibule; he raised his head, listening if any noise came from above. It was the death-like peacefulness of a middle-class drawing-room, carefully shut in and not admitting a breath from outside. Behind the beautiful shining mahogany doors there seemed to be unfathomable depths of respectability.