Page 112 - down-and-out-in-paris-and-london

‘VIVE L’ALLEMAGNE!’ just out of his reach. Furex’s face
went purple at such infamy. Everyone in the BISTRO be-
gan shouting together, ‘VIVE L’ALLEMAGNE! A BAS LA
FRANCE!’ while Furex struggled to get at them. But sud-
denly he spoiled the fun. His face turned pale and doleful,
his limbs went limp, and before anyone could stop him he
was sick on the table. Then Madame F. hoisted him like a sack
and carried him up to bed. In the morning he reappeared
quiet and civil, and bought a copy of L’HUMANITE.
The table was wiped with a cloth, Madame F. brought
more litre bottles and loaves of bread, and we Settled down
to serious drinking. There were more songs. An itinerant
singer came in with his banjo and performed for five-sou
pieces. An Arab and a girl from the BISTRO down the street
did a dance, the man wielding a painted wooden phallus
the size of a rolling-pin. There were gaps in the noise now.
People had begun to talk about their love-affairs, and the
war, and the barbel fishing in the Seine, and the best way
to FAIRE LA REVOLUTION, and to tell stories. Charlie,
grown sober again, captured the conversation and talked
about his soul for five minutes. The doors and windows were
opened to cool the room. The street was emptying, and in
the distance one could hear the lonely milk train thunder-
ing down the Boulevard St Michel. The air blew cold on our
foreheads, and the coarse African wine still tasted good: we
were still happy, but meditatively, with the shouting and hi-
larious mood finished.
By one o’clock we were not happy any longer. We felt the
joy of the evening wearing thin, and called hastily for more

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