neighbors who, at night, when
some one lay drunk in the
street, moaning and groaning
in that typical French ivresse
that you were propaganded to
believe did not exist, would
open their windows and then
the murmur of talk.
''Where is the policeman?
When you don't want him the
bugger is always there. He's
sleeping with some concierge.
Get the Agent. " Till some one
threw a bucket of water from a
window and the moaning
stopped. ''What's that? Water.
Ah, that's intelligent." And the
windows shutting. Marie,
his femme de
menage, protesting against the
eight-hour day saying, ''If a
husband works until six he gets
only a riffle drunk on the way
home and does not waste too
much. If he works only until
five he is drunk every night and
one has no money. It is the wife
of the working man who suffers
from this shortening of hours. '
"Wouldn't you like some more
broth?" the woman asked him
now.
"No, thank you very much. It is
awfully good."
"Try just a little."
"I would like a whiskey-soda."
"It's not good for you."
"No. It's bad for me. Cole
Porter wrote the words and the
music. This knowledge that
you're going mad for me."
"You know I like you to
drink."
"Oh yes. Only it's bad for me."
When she goes, he thought, I'll
have all I want. Not all I want
but all there is. Ayee he was
tired. Too tired. He was going
to sleep a little while. He lay
still and death was not there. It
must have gone around another
street. It went in pairs, on
bicycles, and moved absolutely
silently on the pavements.
JOY FEELINGS | DECEMBER ISSUE
272