"After all," says Volpatte, "it is pretty much like that you know!"
"Why, yes, of course!"
And these were their first words of false swearing that day.
* * * * * *
We go into the Cafe de l'Industrie et des Fleurs. A roadway
of matting clothes the middle of the floor. Painted all the way
along the walls, all the way up the square pillars that support the
roof, and on the front of the counter, there is purple convolvulus
among great scarlet poppies and roses like red cabbages.
"No doubt about it, we've got good taste in France," says Tirette.
"The chap that did all that had a cartload of patience," Blaire
declares as he looks at the rainbow embellishments.
"In these places," Volpatte adds, "the pleasure of drinking isn't
the only one."
Paradis informs us that he knows all about cafes. On Sundays
formerly, he frequented cafes as beautiful as this one and
even more beautiful. Only, he explains, that was a long time ago,
and he has lost the flavor that they've got. He indicates a little
enameled wash-hand basin hanging on the wall and decorated with
flowers: "There's where one can wash his hands." We steer politely
towards the basin. Volpatte signs to Paradis to turn the tap, and
says, "Set the waterworks going!"
Then all six of us enter the saloon, whose circumference is already
adorned with customers, and install ourselves at a table.
"We'll have six currant-vermouths, shall we?"
"We could very easily get used to it again, after all," they repeat.
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