kept coming off.
'I don't know if it still exists, but there used to be a little bistro in this neighbourhood, run by an enormously fat woman ... It isn't far from here...'
Obstinately, I persisted in trying to find it. We kept on paddling through the wet. And when finally, with our shoulders dripping with rain, we entered a little café which was perhaps the one I was looking for and perhaps not, the clock over the bar said a quarter past ten.
'Is your clock right?'
'It's five minutes slow.'
Then we looked at each other and after a second we both burst out laughing.
'What are you going to say to Armande?'
I must have been talking about Armande. I don't know exactly what I could have said, but I have a vague idea that I tried to be witty at her expense.
In fact, it was in this little café, where there wasn't another soul, where a cat was curled up on a chair near a big iron stove - it was in this café, as I say, that I first realized that we were saying tu to each other.
She announced as though it were a choice entertainment:
'We must telephone Armande ... Have you a telephone, Madame?'
'In the hall, to the left.. .'
A narrow hall with walls painted a sickly green led to the lavatories and was impregnated with their smell. The telephone was. attached to the wall. There were two receivers, and Martine took possession of one of them. We were touching each other, or at least our wet clothes were touching, and our breath smelled of the calvados we had just drunk at the bar.
'Hello, give me 12-51, please... Will I have to wait long? ...'
We were told to stay on the wire. I don't know why we were laughing, but I remember that I was obliged to hold my hand over the mouthpiece. We heard the operators calling each other.
'Give me 12-51, dear ... Is it raining as hard there as it is here? ... What time are you through? ... Hello! ...Is this 12-51?... One moment... Nantes calling ... Hello, Nantes... go ahead.. .'
And all this amused us, God knows why — it all seemed excruciatingly funny.
'Hello ... Is that you, Armande?'
'Charles?... Are you still in Nantes?'
Martine poked me with her elbow.
'I've been detained - there were complications. I had to go back to the hospital to see my patient ..
'Did you have dinner with the Gaillards?'
'That is . . .'
Martine was leaning against me. I was afraid she was going to burst out laughing again. I wasn't very proud of myself, as you may imagine ...
'No ... I didn't want to bother them ... I had shopping to do ...'
'Did you find my buttons?'
'Yes... and the toys for the children .. '
'Are you at the Gaillards' now?'
'No ... I'm still in town ... I've just left the hospital .. .'
'Will you spend the night with them?'
'I wonder ... I'd almost rather go to the hotel ... I am tired and with Gaillard it will mean staying up till one o'clock in the morning again ...'
Silence. All this seemed odd to my wife. I swallowed hard when she asked:
'You're alone?'
'Yes ...'
'You're telephoning from a café?'
'I'm going to a hotel...'
'To the Due de Bretagne?'
'Probably. If they have a room.'
'What have you done with the packages?'
'I have them here with me ...'
'Well, don't lose them ... By the way, Mme Gringuois came this evening ... She said she had an appointment for nine o'clock ... She still has pain and insisted on waiting ...'
'I'll see her tomorrow morning.'
'You'll take the first train?'
What else could I do? The six thirty-two, in the dark, in the cold, in the rain! And very often, as I knew, the carriages weren't heated.
'Until tomorrow ...'
I repeated:
'Until tomorrow .. .'
I had hardly hung up when Martine exclaimed:
'She didn't believe you... It was what you said about the packages she didn't swallow...'
We drank another calvados at the bar and plunged once more into the wet darkness of the streets. We were in the gay stage of intoxication. Everything made us laugh. We made fun of the few people we passed in the street. We made fun of Armande, of
'I don't know if it still exists, but there used to be a little bistro in this neighbourhood, run by an enormously fat woman ... It isn't far from here...'
Obstinately, I persisted in trying to find it. We kept on paddling through the wet. And when finally, with our shoulders dripping with rain, we entered a little café which was perhaps the one I was looking for and perhaps not, the clock over the bar said a quarter past ten.
'Is your clock right?'
'It's five minutes slow.'
Then we looked at each other and after a second we both burst out laughing.
'What are you going to say to Armande?'
I must have been talking about Armande. I don't know exactly what I could have said, but I have a vague idea that I tried to be witty at her expense.
In fact, it was in this little café, where there wasn't another soul, where a cat was curled up on a chair near a big iron stove - it was in this café, as I say, that I first realized that we were saying tu to each other.
She announced as though it were a choice entertainment:
'We must telephone Armande ... Have you a telephone, Madame?'
'In the hall, to the left.. .'
A narrow hall with walls painted a sickly green led to the lavatories and was impregnated with their smell. The telephone was. attached to the wall. There were two receivers, and Martine took possession of one of them. We were touching each other, or at least our wet clothes were touching, and our breath smelled of the calvados we had just drunk at the bar.
'Hello, give me 12-51, please... Will I have to wait long? ...'
We were told to stay on the wire. I don't know why we were laughing, but I remember that I was obliged to hold my hand over the mouthpiece. We heard the operators calling each other.
'Give me 12-51, dear ... Is it raining as hard there as it is here? ... What time are you through? ... Hello! ...Is this 12-51?... One moment... Nantes calling ... Hello, Nantes... go ahead.. .'
And all this amused us, God knows why — it all seemed excruciatingly funny.
'Hello ... Is that you, Armande?'
'Charles?... Are you still in Nantes?'
Martine poked me with her elbow.
'I've been detained - there were complications. I had to go back to the hospital to see my patient ..
'Did you have dinner with the Gaillards?'
'That is . . .'
Martine was leaning against me. I was afraid she was going to burst out laughing again. I wasn't very proud of myself, as you may imagine ...
'No ... I didn't want to bother them ... I had shopping to do ...'
'Did you find my buttons?'
'Yes... and the toys for the children .. '
'Are you at the Gaillards' now?'
'No ... I'm still in town ... I've just left the hospital .. .'
'Will you spend the night with them?'
'I wonder ... I'd almost rather go to the hotel ... I am tired and with Gaillard it will mean staying up till one o'clock in the morning again ...'
Silence. All this seemed odd to my wife. I swallowed hard when she asked:
'You're alone?'
'Yes ...'
'You're telephoning from a café?'
'I'm going to a hotel...'
'To the Due de Bretagne?'
'Probably. If they have a room.'
'What have you done with the packages?'
'I have them here with me ...'
'Well, don't lose them ... By the way, Mme Gringuois came this evening ... She said she had an appointment for nine o'clock ... She still has pain and insisted on waiting ...'
'I'll see her tomorrow morning.'
'You'll take the first train?'
What else could I do? The six thirty-two, in the dark, in the cold, in the rain! And very often, as I knew, the carriages weren't heated.
'Until tomorrow ...'
I repeated:
'Until tomorrow .. .'
I had hardly hung up when Martine exclaimed:
'She didn't believe you... It was what you said about the packages she didn't swallow...'
We drank another calvados at the bar and plunged once more into the wet darkness of the streets. We were in the gay stage of intoxication. Everything made us laugh. We made fun of the few people we passed in the street. We made fun of Armande, of
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