Monsieur, there are events in life of which it is difficult to speak
without bitterness. When I recall the disappointment of that dejeuner
at the Cafe Eclatant, my heart swells with rage. The soup was slush,
the fish tasted like washing, the meat was rags. Dessert consisted of
wizened grapes; the one thing fit to eat was the cheese.
As I meditated on the sum I had squandered, I could have cried with
mortification, and, to make matters more pathetic still, I was as
hungry as ever. I sat seeking some caustic epigram to wither the dame-
de-comptoir; and presently the door opened and another victim entered.
Her face was pale and interesting. I saw, by her hesitation, that the
place was strange to her. An accomplice of the chief brigand pounced on
her immediately, and bore her to a table opposite. The misguided girl
was about to waste one-franc-fifty. I felt that I owed a duty to her in
this crisis. The moment called for instant action; before she could
decide between slush and hors d'oeuvres, I pulled an envelope from my
pocket, scribbled a warning, and expressed it to her by the robber who
had brought my bill.
I had written, "The dejeuner is dreadful. Escape!"
It reached her in the nick of time. She read the wrong side of the
envelope first, and was evidently puzzled. Then she turned it over. A
look of surprise, a look of thankfulness, rendered her still more
fascinating. I perceived that she was inventing an excuse--that she
pretended to have forgotten something.
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