My husband is a clerk at the Prefecture, and just
now he's got a holiday to treat his rheumatism."
"I should very much have liked to be a soldier," said the gentleman,
"but I've no luck. The head of my office can't get on without me."
People go and come, elbowing and disappearing behind each other. The
waiters worm their way through with their fragile and sparkling
burdens--green, red or bright yellow, with a white border. The
grating of feet on the sanded floor mingles with the exclamations of
the regular customers as they recognize each other, some standing,
others leaning on their elbows, amid the sound of glasses and
dominoes pushed along the tables. In the background, around the
seductive shock of ivory balls, a crowding circle of spectators
emits classical pleasantries.
"Every man to his trade, mon brave," says a man at the other end of
the table whose face is adorned with powerful colors, addressing
Tirette directly; "you are heroes. On our side, we are working in
the economic life of the country. It is a struggle like yours. I am
useful--I don't say more useful than you, but equally so."
And I see Tirette through the cigar-smoke making round eyes, and in
the hubbub I can hardly hear the reply of his humble and dumbfounded
voice--Tirette, the funny man of the squad!--"Yes, that's true;
every man to his trade."
Furtively we stole away.
* * * * * *
We are almost silent as we leave the Cafe des Fleurs.
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