Light | Page 6

see
pale bits of potato, and it is uncertainly spotted with the mucosity of
onions. Mame pours it into a big white plate. "That's for you," she says;
"now, what shall I have?"
We settle ourselves each side of the little swarthy table. Mame is
fumbling in her pocket. Now her lean hand, lumpy and dark, unroots
itself. She produces a bit of cheese, scrapes it with a knife which she
holds by the blade, and swallows it slowly. By the rays of the lamp,
which stands beside us, I see that her face is not dry. A drop of water
has lingered on the cheek that each mouthful protrudes, and glitters
there. Her great mouth works in all directions, and sometimes swallows
the remains of tears.
So there we are, in front of our plates, of the salt which is placed on a
bit of paper, of my share of jam, which is put into a mustard-pot. There
we are, narrowly close, our foreheads and hands brought together by
the light, and for the rest but poorly clothed by the huge gloom. Sitting
in this jaded armchair, my hands on this ill-balanced table,--which, if
you lean on one side of it, begins at once to limp,--I feel that I am
deeply rooted where I am, in this old room, disordered as an abandoned

garden, this worn-out room, where the dust touches you softly.
After we have eaten, our remarks grow rarer. Then Mame begins again
to mumble; once again she yields to emotion under the harsh flame of
the lamp, and once again her eyes grow dim in her complicated
Japanese mask that is crowned with cotton-wool, and something dimly
shining flows from them.
The tears of the sensitive old soul plash on that lip so voluminous that it
seems a sort of heart. She leans towards me, she comes so near, so near,
that I feel sure she is touching me.
I have only her in the world to love me really. In spite of her humors
and her lamentations I know well that she is always in the right.
I yawn, while she takes away the dirty plates and proceeds to hide them
in a dark corner. She fills the big bowl from the pitcher and then carries
it along to the stove for the crockery.
Antonia has given me an appointment for eight o'clock, near the Kiosk.
It is ten past eight. I go out. The passage, the court,--by night all these
familiar things surround me even while they hide themselves. A vague
light still hovers in the sky. Crillon's prismatic shop gleams like a
garnet in the bosom of the night, behind the riotous disorder of his
buckets. There I can see Crillon,--he never seems to stop,--filing
something, examining his work close to a candle which flutters like a
butterfly ensnared, and then, reaching for the glue-pot which steams on
a little stove. One can just see his face, the engrossed and heedless face
of the artificer of the good old days; the black plates of his ill-shaven
cheeks; and, protruding from his cap, a vizor of stiff hair. He coughs,
and the window-panes vibrate.
In the street, shadow and silence. In the distance are venturing shapes,
people emerging or entering, and some light echoing sounds. Almost at
once, on the corner, I see Monsieur Joseph Bonéas vanishing, stiff as
a ramrod. I recognized the thick white kerchief, which consolidates the
boils on his neck. As I pass the hairdresser's door it opens, just as it did
a little while ago, and his agreeable voice says, "That's all there is to it,

in business." "Absolutely," replies a man who is leaving. In the oven of
the street one can see only his littleness--he must be a considerable
personage, all the same. Monsieur Pocard is always applying himself to
business and thinking of great schemes. A little farther, in the depths of
a cavity, stoppered by an iron-grilled window, I divine the presence of
old Eudo, the bird of ill omen, the strange old man who coughs, and
has a bad eye, and whines continually. Even indoors he must wear his
mournful cloak and the lamp-shade of his hood. People call him a spy,
and not without reason.
Here is the Kiosk. It is waiting quite alone, with its point in the
darkness. Antonia has not come, for she would have waited for me. I
am impatient first, and then relieved. A good riddance.
No doubt Antonia is still tempting when she is present. There is a
reddish fever in her eyes, and her slenderness sets you on fire. But I am
hardly in harmony with the Italian. She is particularly engrossed in her
private affairs, with which I am not concerned. Big Victorine, always
ready, is worth