from CHAPTER ONE: CHOOSING IS AGING

She smiled so curiously I could not keep my eyes from her pale face, and it may be that in spite of myself I answered her smile as one would a mirror. Naturally — indeed it was quite the most natural thing in the world — she was drinking a menthe verte, since in this city all those whose profession is love make no secret of their devotion to this odd beverage which is nothing but a liquid candy. The café was taking a little nap. The aperitif hour had passed, and that of chocolate and sandwiches had not yet come. The waiters stood about with bowed heads and dangling arms. A few had seated themselves, looking much like those statues that receive gold medals at the salon and adorn public squares — useless, motionless and out of date.

A light breeze stirred from time to time, weaving a tranquil and monotonous design.

She stood up and I, likewise; I walked beside her along the boulevard Saint-Germain and in front of the booth of the anti-alcoholic league, which still displayed its dried brains, I said to her:

"Evidently it would be best to cross over."

"As you please."

And we crossed the boulevard, turning our backs on anti-alcoholism.

Hearts throbbed in the trees; it was the end of summer and someone leaning on his elbows in a window said to the night. "It is cold."… Possibly, thought I, but one thing at a time.

A little bell like that of a church wakened the lights and gave an acid sharpness to the billboard of Saint-Germain-des-Pres. Signs were made. By whom, to whom? Briefly, it was white night. The eleven o’clock mist. The little lady cooed and mumbled alternately in the manner of one who powders, and then rouges her lips. The same care, the same coquetry. She led me to the boulevard Saint-Michel, then round the Luxembourg, eyes closed.

Dogs were running about in this beautiful senatorial enclosure, now filled with immense shadows. I lent my ears to the uproar. A sort of fountain pronounced a couplet, the stupid refrain of the Latin Quarter, a ten cent song which the students sing in order to get the name of students: berets, caps, flowing ties.

"Have you noticed," said my snowy companion, "that in this fool park there is never a butterfly?"

A big dog — prisoner or jailer, who knows? — barked loudly.

The rue de Medicis along which we were strolling at a fair pace is sad around ten-thirty at night. It is the street of everlasting rain.

It is said that along one side of it is the meeting place of masochistic bachelors. A modest and silent club. Here umbrellas take on the appearance of a flock.

"You know," she said, "that around here are places where you can get coffee with cream."

At its very start the rue de Vaugirard stinks of books. The odor comes from every side. Its friend and neighbor, the rue de Tournon, is more inviting. So much so that I was prepared for a proposal and the address of a comfortable hotel.