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Updated: June 23, 2025
It no more knows that it has been using language than M. Jourdain knew he had been speaking prose, but M. Jourdain's knowing or not knowing was neither here nor there. Anything which can be made to hitch on invariably to a definite idea that can carry some distance say an inch at the least, and which can be repeated at pleasure, can be pressed into the service of language. Mrs.
How did you accomplish it?" "By the merest chance by great good fortune. I was making a search of the French quarter, house by house, when, on Houston Street, I came to a restaurant, the Café Jourdain. A bottle of supérieur set Jourdain's tongue to wagging; I pretended I wanted a room; he dropped a word, the merest hint; and, in the end, I got the whole story.
Maitre Hauchecorne remained speechless and grew more and more uneasy. Why had they called him "great rogue"? When seated at table in Jourdain's tavern he began again to explain the whole affair. A horse dealer of Montivilliers shouted at him: "Get out, get out, you old scamp! I know all about your old string." Hauchecorne stammered: "But since they found it again, the pocketbook!"
And it was as if she had known it all the time, known that she would come downstairs that morning and see Maurice Jourdain's letter lying on the table. She always had known that something, some wonderful, beautiful, tremendous thing would happen to her. This was it. It had been hidden in all her happiness. Her happiness was it. Maurice Jourdain.
At Jourdain's the common room was full of customers, as the great yard was full of vehicles of every sort carts, cabriolets, char-
Jimmy's face, not Maurice Jourdain's. That was in September. October passed. She began to wonder when he would come again. He came on the last day of November. "Maurice, you're keeping something from me. Something's happened. Something's made you unhappy." "Yes. Something's made me unhappy." The Garthdale road. Before them, on the rise, the white highway showed like a sickle curving into the moor.
Dan's friend, Lindley Vickers, was sitting on the sofa, talking to Mamma. When she came in he left off talking and looked at her with sudden happy eyes. She remembered Maurice Jourdain's disappointed eyes, and Mark's. Dan became suddenly very polite and attentive. All through dinner Mr.
At Jourdain's the great room was filled with eaters, just as the vast court was filled with vehicles of every sort wagons, gigs, chars-a-bancs, tilburies, innumerable vehicles which have no name, yellow with mud, misshapen, pieced together, raising their shafts to heaven like two arms, or it may be with their nose on the ground and their rear in the air.
All the aristocracy of the plough were eating there at Mait' Jourdain's, the innkeeper's, a dealer in horses also and a sharp fellow who had made a great deal of money in his day. The dishes were passed round, were emptied, as were the jugs of yellow cider. Every one told of his affairs, of his purchases and his sales. They exchanged news about the crops.
The name "prose" must be reserved for the fine art of language that fine art whose other branch is poetry. It is a grammarians' term, "prose," and belongs not to the herd. They do not need it, and it would never have come into M. Jourdain's head or out of his mouth, had he not taken a tutor.
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