Tomcats lounged on the rooftops and, half closing their eyes, condescendingly watched the yard, across which the room-cleaner, Alexander, was hurrying with a bundle of dirty washing.
Things began stirring in the corridors of the Sorbonne.
Delegates were arriving from other regions for the opening of the tramway.
A whole crowd of them got down from a wagon bearing the name of the Sorbonne Hotel.
The sun was warming to its fullest extent.
Up flew the corrugated iron shutters of the shops, and workers in Soviet government offices on their way to work in padded coats breathed heavily and unbuttoned themselves, feeling the heaviness of spring.
On Co-operative Street an overloaded truck belonging to the grain-mill-and-lift-construction administration broke a spring, and Victor Polesov arrived at the scene to give advice.
From one of the rooms furnished with down-to-earth luxury (two beds and a night table) came a horse-like snorting and neighing. Ippolit Matveyevich was happily washing himself and blowing his nose.
The smooth operator lay in bed inspecting the damage to his boots.
"By the way," he said, "kindly settle your debt."
Ippolit Matveyevich surfaced from under his towel and looked at his partner with bulging, pince-nezless eyes.
"Why are you staring at me like a soldier at a louse?
What are you surprised about?
The debt?
Yes!
You owe me some money.
I forgot to tell you yesterday that I had to pay, with your authority, seventy roubles for the orders.
Herewith the receipt.
Sling over thirty-five roubles.
Concessionaires, I hope, share the expenses on an equal footing?"
Ippolit Matveyevich put on his pince-nez, read the receipt and, sighing, passed over the money.
But even that could not dampen his spirits.
The riches were in their hands.
The thirty-rouble speck of dust vanished in the glitter of a. diamond mountain.
Smiling radiantly, Ippolit Matveyevich went out into the corridor and began strolling up and down.
His plans for a new life built on a foundation of precious stones brought him great comfort.
"And the holy father," he gloated, "has been taken for a ride.
He'll see as much of the chairs as his beard."
Reaching the end of the corridor, Vorobyaninov turned round.
The cracked white door of room no. 13 opened wide, and out towards him came Father Theodore in a blue tunic encircled by a shabby black cord with a fluffy tassel.
His kindly face was beaming with happiness.
He had also come into the corridor to stretch his legs.
The rivals approached one another several times, looking at each other triumphantly as they passed.
At the two ends of the corridor they both turned simultaneously and approached again. . . .
Ippolit Matveyevich's heart was bursting with joy.
Father Theodore was experiencing a similar feeling.
Each was sorry for his defeated enemy.
By the time they reached the fifth lap, Ippolit Matveyevich could restrain himself no longer.
"Good morning, Father," he said with inexpressible sweetness.
Father Theodore mustered all the sarcasm with which God had endowed him and replied with:
"Good morning, Ippolit Matveyevich."
The enemies parted.
When their paths next crossed, Vorobyaninov said casually:
"I hope I didn't hurt you at our last meeting."
"Not at all, it was very pleasant to see you," replied the other jubilantly..
They moved apart again.
Father Theodore's physiognomy began to disgust Ippolit Matveyevich.
"I don't suppose you're saying Mass any more?" he remarked at the next encounter.
"There's nowhere to say it.
The parishioners have all run off in search of treasure."