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your hat on, Doctor, you'll catch cold. But a doctor would get well
On the other side of the street a gentleman, holding his wife by
quickly; Alas! Madame, doctors are the least well looked after; the
the arm, has just whispered a few words in her ear and has started
Doctor is a remarkable musician. Really, Doctor? But I never knew,
to smile. She immediately wipes all expression from her chalky,
you play the violin? The Doctor is very gifted."
cream coloured face and blindly takes a few steps. There is no
The little old man next to me is surely Coffier; one of the
mistaking these signs: they are going to greet somebody. Indeed,
women of the group, the brunette, is devouring him with her
after a moment, the gentleman throws his hands up. When his
eyes, all the while smiling at the Doctor. She seems to be thinking,
fingers reach his felt hat, they hesitate a second before coming down
"There's Monsieur Comer, president of the Chamber of
delicately on the crown. While he slowly raises his hat, bowing
Commerce; how intimidating he looks, they say he's so frigid."
his head a little to help its removal, his wife gives a little start and
But M. Coffier deigns to see nothing: these people are from the
forces a young smile on her face. A bowing shadow passes them: but
Boulevard Maritime, they do not belong to his world. Since I have
their twin smiles do not disappear immediately: they stay on their
been coming to this street to see the Sunday hat-raising, I have
lips a few instants by a sort of magnetism. The lady and gentleman
learned to distinguish people from the Boulevard and people
have regained their impassibility by the time they pass me, but a
from the Coteau. When a man wears a new overcoat, a soft felt hat,
certain air of gaiety still lingers around their mouths.
a dazzling shirt, when he creates a vacuum in passing, there's no
It's finished: the crowd is less congested, the hat-raisings less frequent,
mistaking it: he is someone from the Boulevard Maritime. You
the shop windows have something less exquisite about them: I am
know people from the Coteau Vert by some kind of shabby, sunken
at the end of the Rue Tournebride. Shall I cross and go up the
look. They have narrow shoulders and an air of insolence on their
street on the other side? I think I have had enough: I have seen
worn faces. This fat gentleman holding a child by the hand I'd
enough pink skulls, thin, distinguished and faded countenances. I
swear he comes from the Coteau: his face is all grey and his tie
am going to cross the Place Marignan. As I cautiously extricate
knotted like a string.
myself from the column, the face of a real gentleman in a black hat
The fat man comes near us: he stares at M. Comer. But, just
springs up near me. The husband of the lady in navy blue. Ah, the
before he crosses his path, he turns his head away and begins
fine, long dolichocephalic skull planted with short, wiry hair, the
joking in a fatherly way with his little boy. He takes a few more
handsome American moustache sown with silver threads. And the
steps, bent over his son, his eyes gazing in the child's eyes,
smile, above all, the admirable, cultivated smile. There is also an
nothing but a father; then suddenly he turns quickly towards us,
eyeglass, somewhere on a nose. Turning to his wife he says:
throws a quick glance at the little old man and makes an ample,
"He's a new factory designer. I wonder what he can be
quick salute with a sweep of his arm. Disconcerted, the little boy
doing here. He's a good boy, he's timid and he amuses me."
has not taken off his hat: this is an affair between grown-ups.
Standing against the window of Julien, the pork butcher's
At the corner of the Rue Basse-de-Vieille our column abuts
shop, the young designer who has just done his hair, still pink,
into a column of the faithful coming out of Mass: a dozen
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persons rush forward, shaking each other's hand and whirling
44
ately begins an animated story. The stockbroker does not listen
his eyes lowered, an obstinate look on his face, has all the appear-
to him: he makes faces and pulls at his beard. They never listen to
ance of a voluptuary. This is undoubtedly the first Sunday he has
each other.
dared cross the Rue Tournebride. He looks like a lad who has
I recognize my neighbours: small businessmen in the neigh-
been to his First Communion. He has crossed his hands behind
his back and turned his face towards the window with an air of bourhood. Sunday is their maids' day off. So they come here,
exciting modesty; without appearing to see, he looks at four always sitting at the same table. The husband eats a fine rib of
small sausages shining in gelatine, spread out on a bed of parsley. underdone beef. He looks at it closely and smells it from time to
A woman comes out of the shop and takes his arm. His wife. time. The wife picks at her plate. A heavy blonde woman of
She is quite young, despite her pocked skin. She can stroll along forty with red, downy cheeks. She has fine, hard breasts under
the Rue Tournebride as much as she likes, no one will mistake her
her satin blouse. Like a man, she polishes off a bottle of
for a lady; she is betrayed by the cynical sparkle of her eyes, by her
Bordeaux at every meal.
sophisticated look. Real ladies do not know the price of things,
I am going to read Eugenie Grandet. It isn't that I get any
they like adorable follies; their eyes are like beautiful, hothouse
great pleasure out of it: but I have to do something. I open the
flowers.
book at random: the mother and daughter are speaking of Eu-
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