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We walked on for some distance in silence, then he added: 'That was four years ago. You wonder why I live to tell you of it, why I haven't cut my throat. I don't know whether it's cowardice or conscientious scruples. It seems rather inconsequent to say that I believe in a God, doesn't it? that I believe one's life is not one's own to make an end of? Anyhow, here I am, keeping body and soul together as musician to a brasserie-
There was also much in evidence another type of female whose extravagance of costume and boldness of manner loudly proclaimed her ancient profession. On either side of the boulevard were shops and cafés, mostly cafés, with every now and then a brasserie, or beer hall.
One evening in the year 1834 a gentleman named Morin, having been taken out of his usual course by a matter of business, entered a BRASSERIE for a cup of coffee. There he noted two girls, one of them singing with remarkable sweetness, and the other silently following with the wooden plate.
I've got no heart for friendship, and you remind me too keenly of many things. 'But if I come to the brasserie to-morrow night? 'Oh, if you do that, you'll oblige me to throw up my employment there, and hide from you. You must promise not to come again you must respect my wishes. 'You're cruel, you know. 'Perhaps, perhaps. But I think I'm only reasonable. Anyhow, good-bye.
"A creeping serpent, masked as a friend, who struck in the dark! And he was Diane's seducer! The night he stole her from me we were drinking together in a brasserie in the Latin Quarter! And, as if that was not deep enough injury, he brought her to England, years afterwards, to ruin my new-found happiness. There was never such perfidy!
Renine muttered, a moment later: "That's where the whole problem lies. Where are the notes? If we could lay our hands on them, we should know everything." At the Brasserie Lutetia there was a telephone in the private room where he asked to have lunch served.
Brasserie passage, a dark and gloomy passage, but little known, although situated in the center of Paris, extended on one side from the Rue Traversiere Saint Honore to the Cour Saint Guillaume on the other. About the middle of this wet, muddy, dark, and gloomy street, where the sun scarcely ever penetrates, stood a furnished house.
He took up his letters in his large hand, and crushing them together, held it out to me. "That epistolary matter," he said, "is worth about five cents. But I guess," he added, rising, "I have taken it in by this time." When I had drawn my money I asked him to come and breakfast with me at the little brasserie, much favoured by students, to which I used to resort in the old town.
They walked on together and turned down the Rue Pigalle and, striking off, reached the Grands Boulevards. The Brasserie Tourtel enticed them. They entered and sat down to a modest supper, sandwiches and brown beer. "I wish," said Andrew, "you would do me the pleasure to speak English with me." "Why?" cried the other. "Is my French so villainous?"
I heard that she was ill; no, not dying, but very ill. Alphonsine gave me her address; a little higher up on the same side as the Cirque Fernando, nearly facing the Elysee Montmartre. The number I could inquire out, she said, and I went away in a cab up the steep and stony Rue des Martyres, noticing the cafe and then the brasserie and a little higher up the fruit-seller and the photographer.
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