spy. He was obliged to close up shop.
Then Mademoiselle Hermance, at No. 26, who had hitherto specialized in the sale of a certain mentionable or unmentionable item made of rubber, would have been doing all right under the prevailing circumstances, if she hadn't found it so unconscionably difficult to procure her "merry widows," which were made in Germany.
In short, it was only Madame Herote who, on the threshold of a new era of lighter-than-air democratic lingerie, found an easy way to prosperity.
Plenty of anonymous letters were written from shop to shop, and they didn't mince words. Madame Herote preferred for her entertainment to write to highly placed persons, so demonstrating that a virulent ambition was the cornerstone of her character. She wrote several to the Premier, for instance, just to convince him that he was a cuckold, and some to Marshal Pétain[26] in English, with the help of a dictionary, to drive him crazy. But what's an anonymous letter? Water off a duck's back. Every day Madame Herote received a whole packet of these unsigned letters, which didn't smell good, I assure you. She'd be pensive, upset, for about ten minutes, but then she'd recover her composure, she didn't care how or by what means, but she got it back good and solid, for there was no place for doubt in her inner life, and still less for truth.
Among her customers and protégées, there were several young ladies from the entertainment world? actresses and musicians? who came with more debts than clothes. Madame Herote gave them advice, and it helped them no end. One of them was Musyne, the most attractive of the lot for my money. Musyne was a musician, she played the violin, a very shrewd little angel, as I was soon to learn. Implacable in her determination to succeed here on earth and not in heaven, she was doing all right at the time of our first meeting in an adorable, exceedingly Parisian, and now completely forgotten little act at the Variétés.[27]
She'd appear with her violin in a kind of impromptu prologue in melody and verse. A charming, complicated genre.
Smitten as I was, my days became a frenzy, dashing from the hospital to the back door of her theater. I was seldom alone in waiting for her. The ground forces would snatch her away in a twinkling, the flyers had an even easier time of it, but undoubtedly the seduction prize went to the Argentines. As more and more soldiers swarmed to the colors, their coldstorage meat business assumed the proportions of a tidal wave. Little Musyne made a good thing of those profiteering days; she knew what she was doing, since then the Argentines have gone out of existence.
I didn't understand. I was being hornswoggled by everything and everybody, women, money, and ideas. I was a sucker, and I didn't like it. I still run into Musyne now and then, every two years or so she crosses my path, as people one has known well tend to. Two years is the time it takes to perceive at one glance, a glance as sure as instinct, the ugliness that can come over a face, even one that was delicious in its day.
For a moment you hesitate, then you accept the face as it has become, with its repugnant cumulative disharmony. What can you do but acquiesce in this slow, painstaking caricature which two years have etched, but accept the passage of time, that portrait of ourselves. Then we can say that we've really recognized each other (like some foreign banknote that one hesitates to accept at first sight), that we hadn't taken a wrong turn, that each on his own we'd traveled the right road, the inevitable road to decay, for another two years. That's all there is to it.
When she ran into me like that, I frightened her so with my big head it looked as if she wanted to run away, to avoid me, to turn aside, anything ... Obviously, as far as she was concerned, I stank of a whole past. But I've known her age for too long, and try as she will she absolutely can't escape me. She stands there, evidently put off by my
Then Mademoiselle Hermance, at No. 26, who had hitherto specialized in the sale of a certain mentionable or unmentionable item made of rubber, would have been doing all right under the prevailing circumstances, if she hadn't found it so unconscionably difficult to procure her "merry widows," which were made in Germany.
In short, it was only Madame Herote who, on the threshold of a new era of lighter-than-air democratic lingerie, found an easy way to prosperity.
Plenty of anonymous letters were written from shop to shop, and they didn't mince words. Madame Herote preferred for her entertainment to write to highly placed persons, so demonstrating that a virulent ambition was the cornerstone of her character. She wrote several to the Premier, for instance, just to convince him that he was a cuckold, and some to Marshal Pétain[26] in English, with the help of a dictionary, to drive him crazy. But what's an anonymous letter? Water off a duck's back. Every day Madame Herote received a whole packet of these unsigned letters, which didn't smell good, I assure you. She'd be pensive, upset, for about ten minutes, but then she'd recover her composure, she didn't care how or by what means, but she got it back good and solid, for there was no place for doubt in her inner life, and still less for truth.
Among her customers and protégées, there were several young ladies from the entertainment world? actresses and musicians? who came with more debts than clothes. Madame Herote gave them advice, and it helped them no end. One of them was Musyne, the most attractive of the lot for my money. Musyne was a musician, she played the violin, a very shrewd little angel, as I was soon to learn. Implacable in her determination to succeed here on earth and not in heaven, she was doing all right at the time of our first meeting in an adorable, exceedingly Parisian, and now completely forgotten little act at the Variétés.[27]
She'd appear with her violin in a kind of impromptu prologue in melody and verse. A charming, complicated genre.
Smitten as I was, my days became a frenzy, dashing from the hospital to the back door of her theater. I was seldom alone in waiting for her. The ground forces would snatch her away in a twinkling, the flyers had an even easier time of it, but undoubtedly the seduction prize went to the Argentines. As more and more soldiers swarmed to the colors, their coldstorage meat business assumed the proportions of a tidal wave. Little Musyne made a good thing of those profiteering days; she knew what she was doing, since then the Argentines have gone out of existence.
I didn't understand. I was being hornswoggled by everything and everybody, women, money, and ideas. I was a sucker, and I didn't like it. I still run into Musyne now and then, every two years or so she crosses my path, as people one has known well tend to. Two years is the time it takes to perceive at one glance, a glance as sure as instinct, the ugliness that can come over a face, even one that was delicious in its day.
For a moment you hesitate, then you accept the face as it has become, with its repugnant cumulative disharmony. What can you do but acquiesce in this slow, painstaking caricature which two years have etched, but accept the passage of time, that portrait of ourselves. Then we can say that we've really recognized each other (like some foreign banknote that one hesitates to accept at first sight), that we hadn't taken a wrong turn, that each on his own we'd traveled the right road, the inevitable road to decay, for another two years. That's all there is to it.
When she ran into me like that, I frightened her so with my big head it looked as if she wanted to run away, to avoid me, to turn aside, anything ... Obviously, as far as she was concerned, I stank of a whole past. But I've known her age for too long, and try as she will she absolutely can't escape me. She stands there, evidently put off by my
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