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Updated: June 13, 2025
Looking very important, he added, "In your position, you should know everything written against you." I followed this friendly advice, and went to the Rue du Croissant, where the office of "Le Charivari" moulders. As the place is anything but attractive to well-bred persons, allow me to get there by the longest road, and to go through the Faubourg Saint Honoré.
She handed him a stout canvas bag. "Jesus! What's in here?" "Rocks and books. You're looking pleased with life. How's the world of architecture?" "All right. Still looking for the perfect client." He rubbed his stomach with his free hand and pointed across the street to Standard Baking Company. "Croissants," he said. "A croissant a day keeps the doctor away. Are you hungry?" "No.
He came to me yesterday afternoon in the Rue Croissant to borrow some money." She understood then the object of Gerald's stroll on the previous afternoon. "I hope you didn't lend him any," she said. "Eh, well! It was like this. He said he ought to have received five thousand francs yesterday morning, but that he had had a telegram that it would not arrive till to-day.
I had only a cup of coffee and a croissant at La Turbie, and I'm as hungry as a wolf." "A wolf this shepherd is not afraid to let into his fold. Will I not give you lunch? Though, alas! not being prepared for an honoured guest, it will hardly be worth your eating. If you have changed, my Principino, it is for the better. From a youth you have become a man."
It was a sordid business, and I was not inclined to trouble myself with it further. One morning I was working. I sat in my Pyjamas. My thoughts wandered, and I thought of the sunny beaches of Brittany and the freshness of the sea. By my side was the empty bowl in which the concierge had brought me my <i cafe au lait> and the fragment of croissant which I had not had appetite enough to eat.
After dinner last evening I happened to be near the Cafe du Croissant near the Bourse and in the heart of the newspaper quarter of Paris. Suddenly an excited crowd collected. "Jaures has been assassinated!" shouted a waiter. The French deputy and anti-war agitator was sitting with his friends at a table near an open window in the cafe.
He returned to his table at the guest house and ordered another cup of Cappuccino and a croissant. He took out a pen from his wet pockets but it would not write. He laughed. No, neither rain nor lugubrious tragedy would wash away the gloss that covered his cracks for he never ceased to be amused by the incredible, the ironic, and the peculiar of everyday experiences.
"Ohé, Mustapha!" shouted the line soldiers, "Ohé, le Croissant!" and their band-master, laughing, raised his tasselled baton, and the band burst out in a roll of drums and cymbals, "Partons pour la Syrie." "Petite riffa!" said the big standard-bearer, beaming which was very good French for a Kabyle.
And yet it was only the accidental meeting of a friend which diverted my attention of dining in the Croissant Restaurant in which the crime took place at the very hour when I should have been there.
La montagne, vers Sur, s'arrondît en croissant, et s'avance par ses deux pointes jusqu'
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