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Monsieur Champoun, a clean, neat, smoothly-shaven, old Frenchman, is sharing the meal with him. This Champoun had once been a tutor in Kamyshev's household, had taught his children good manners, the correct pronunciation of French, and dancing: afterwards when Kamyshev's children had grown up and become lieutenants, Champoun had become something like a bonne of the male sex.
The duties of the former tutor were not complicated. He had to be properly dressed, to smell of scent, to listen to Kamyshev's idle babble, to eat and drink and sleep and apparently that was all. For this he received a room, his board, and an indefinite salary. Kamyshev eats and as usual babbles at random.
"My God! accursed be that hour when the fatal thought of leaving my country entered my head! . . ." "Come, come, come . . . I was joking!" says Kamyshev in a lower tone. "Queer fish he is; he doesn't understand a joke. One can't say a word!" "My dear friend!" shrieks Champoun, reassured by Kamyshev's tone.
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