"Pooh! pooh!" shouted the other, "I see your trouble--you have no
acquaintances. It is six o'clock; come with me to dinner, and you shall
know half of Paris, men and women."
They filed down the tortuous Rue Jacob, now thrice gloomy by the closing
shadows of evening, and turning into the Rue de Seine, stopped before
the doorway of a little painted _boutique_, whereon was written
"_Cremery du Quartier Latin_."
A tall, sallow, bright-eyed Frenchman was seated at a fragment of
counter within the smallest apartment in the world, and addressing this
man as "Pere George" the stranger passed through a second sash doorway
and introduced Ralph Flare to the most miscellaneous and democratic
assemblage that he had ever beheld in his life.
Two long yellow tables reached lengthwise down a long, narrow _salon_,
the floor whereof was made of tiles, and the light whereof fizzed and
flamed from two unruly burners. A door at the farther end opened upon a
cook-room, and the cook, a scorched and meagre woman, was standing now
in the firelight, talking in a high key, as only a Frenchwoman can talk.
Then there was Madame George, fat and handsome, and gossipy likewise,
with a baby, a boy, and a daughter; and the patrons of the place, twenty
or more in number, were eating and laughing and all speaking at the same
time, so that Ralph Flare was at first stunned and afterward astonished.
Pages:
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105