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Updated: June 13, 2025
Jessie had learned much about Julian in these latter days. Into her pricked and pointed ear, leaf-shaped and the hue of India-rubber, had been whispered a strange tale of the dawning of love in a battered heart, of the blossoming of respect in a warped mind. She had heard of the meeting in Piccadilly, of the meal at the Monico, of the farewell on the kerbstone.
Pancracio is about to break the lock of a huge wardrobe when suddenly the doors open and out comes a man with a rifle in his hands. "Senor Don Monico!" they all exclaim in surprise. "Demetrio, please, don't harm me! Please don't harm me! Please don't hurt me! You know, Senor Don Demetrio, I'm your friend!" Demetrio Macias smiles slyly. "Are friends," he asked, "usually welcomed gun in hand?"
"We're going to bid Monico good morning," Demetrio said gravely, dismounting and tossing his bridle to one of his men. "We're going to have breakfast with Don Monico, who's a particular friend of mine ...." The general's staff smiled ... a sinister, malign smile.... Making their spurs ring against the pavement, they walked toward a large pretentious house, obviously that of a cacique.
"No, it isn't." "Shall we go to some preposterous place to the Monico?" "Where you like. It's just tea time, or coffee time." They walked to the Monico in the March wind, and went in with a group of Italians, passing the woman who sells foreign papers, and seeing names that transported them to Paris, to Milan, to Rome, to Berlin.
Julian said at last. "Isn't it a lovely night?" "Yes. I say, I'm tired," she answered. "Shall I take you somewhere?" he asked. "Yes, do," she said. They moved towards the Circus. "Where shall we go?" Julian said. "Have you any pet place?" "I don't know oh, the Monico," she replied. The restaurant was right in front of them.
She was not just in the mood for it, but she went; and after the theatre they had supper at the Monico and Gilbert ordered a bottle of champagne to cheer them up; with the lights and music all round them and Gilbert's face opposite her, his lips smiling at her, his eyes caressing her, Joan forgot her mood of uneasiness.
The soldiers roared with joy. "What fine tripe, General; I swear I haven't tasted the like of it in all my life," Blondie said, as he began to reminisce about "El Monico" at Chihuahua. "You really like it, Blondie?" responded Demetrio. "Go ahead, call for more, eat your bellyful." "It's just the way I like it," Anastasio chimed in. "Yes, I like good food!
The great restaurants rose up calm and violet in the evening sky, the Cafe Monico, with its air of French newspapers and Italian wines; and before the grey facade of the fashionable Criterion hansoms stopped and dinner parties walked across the pavement. The fine weather had brought the women up earlier than usual from the suburbs.
After a few weeks' enforced idleness, during which he was lost sight of by the comrades, he reappeared one evening at a group meeting held at our office, and informed us that he was taken on as electrician at the Monico. Ten days had now passed since I last saw him, and my expression was eloquent of my amazement at his unexpected appearance.
One of the women, trembling, walks toward a cupboard and, taking out some glasses and a bottle, serves wine. "What arms have you?" Demetrio demands harshly. "Arms, arms...?" the lady answers, a taste of ashes on her tongue. "What arms do you expect us to have! We are respectable, lonely old ladies!" "Lonely, eh! Where's Senor Monico?" "Oh, he's not here, gentlemen, I assure you!
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