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Updated: May 23, 2025
The closed door of the first classe my sanctuary offered no obstacle; it burst open, and a paletot and a bonnet grec filled the void; also two eyes first vaguely struck upon, and then hungrily dived into me. "C'est cela!" said a voice. "Je la connais: c'est l'Anglaise. Tant pis. Toute Anglaise, et, par consequent, toute begueule qu'elle soit elle fera mon affaire, ou je saurai pourquoi."
The train is already in motion when the young man jumps on the step and thrusts in his hand for one parting shake. "Mon tout," say I, screwing up my face into a crying shape, and speaking in a squeaky, pseudo-tearful voice, "je ne saurai vous le dire!" Then he is hustled off by an indignant guard and three porters, and we see him no more. I throw myself back into my corner laughing.
For me it marked the end of a chapter, the death of something young and precious. There were the years years of childhood and innocence when I had believed that carminative meant well, carminative. And now, before me lies the rest of my life a day, perhaps, ten years, half a century, when I shall know that carminative means windtreibend. 'Plus ne suis ce que j'ai ete Et ne le saurai jamais etre.
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