Золотой жук. Уровень 1 / The Gold-bug

His family was once rich and famous. Now, due to some unfortunate events, he was poor. He had so little money he only could buy the most necessary things. But it bothered him little as well. He could afford a few books – fortunately, these were easy to buy in Paris – and that was enough for him to be happy.

We first met each other at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre. We were searching for the same very rare and remarkable book. We saw each other again and again. Soon we began to talk. He told me the history of his family which I found very interesting.

I was also surprised how well-read he was. I felt that the society of such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price. Eventually we decided to live together while I’m in the city as it was beneficial to both of us.

We never had visitors and spent our time reading, writing or talking. One could call us madmen because of our hermit lifestyle. But we enjoyed our loneliness. When it was nighttime, we used to go for a walk, arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day.

So were the days.

I soon noticed his ability to look through one’s soul. He surprised me by telling what he knew about my own soul. He knew things about me that only I could knew. At these moments of insight, he was cold and distant; his voice became high and nervous. At such times, I thought of him as a double Dupin – the creative and the resolvent.

One night we were strolling down one of the long dirty streets of Paris. Both of us were silent, each thinking our own thoughts.

Suddenly Dupin broke the silence:

“He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would do better for less serious acting.”

“Absolutely, no doubts about that!” I answered unwittingly.

For a few seconds I continued walking, and thinking; but suddenly I realized that Dupin agreed with something which was only a thought.

“Dupin,” I said, “this is beyond my understanding. How could you know that I was thinking of…”

“How did I know you were thinking of Chantilly? You were thinking that Chantilly is too small for the plays in which he acts.

”

These were exactly my thoughts.

“Tell me, for Heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method-if method there is-by which you are able to look through my soul in this matter.”

“It was the fruit-seller.”

“Fruit-seller!? I know no fruit-seller.”

“He ran up against you as we entered the street – it was fifteen minutes ago.