you; you never know what you’re letting yourself in for; tell him that.”
Just his imagination. Still, if it’ll please him, she’ll tell him. Right. So long.
No sooner has Mme. Cloche disappeared around the corner than Mme. Belhôtel number two reappears.
“The old bitch gone?”
“Mm hm, she’s gone.”
“What did she have to tell you this time?”
Saturnin gives an accurate report, which is interrupted by the arrival of a telegraph messenger; it’s a telegram for Narcense. This is a rare and important occurrence. Will they have time to steam it open and discover some secret? ...
Saturnin seals the telegram up again; nothing of any interest; “Grandmother dead.” That’s not a secret. They’d have known about it anyway.
—oooooo—oooooo—
The night light revealed three to four shapes, deflated by slumber, trying in vain to find a comfortable position to sleep in. The head of one of them, who was merely sitting, was oscillating; the feet of another adjoined a cavernous face, its eyes bunged up with fatigue and embellished with an incipient rheumy discharge. Narcense, sitting motionless in a corner, with staring eyes, didn’t see the badly dressed bodies but, beyond the brown boards of the third-class coach, caught sight of a house that hadn’t had the strength to reach its second floor and remained acephalous. Now and then his grandmother went by with her retinue of foraging hens and her prehistoric old woman’s idiosyncrasies and her three aggressive teeth and her never-ending need to piss. She’d been a decent old woman. In the kitchen, getting the dinner, that very beautiful woman. One of the slumberers went out into the corridor, which made the man next to him move restlessly and automatically take up more room. The other came back a few minutes later and insinuated himself into the reduced space.
A multiplicity of little lights announced the approach of a big town. A bridge was suspended over a suburban street. Narcense caught sight of a mangy dog zigzagging about in search of garbage. Then, in the station, the train, gradually, stopped. Some passengers got out, with swollen eyes and flabby hands. Narcense leaned out of the window, watching the people walking up and down and fussing, and the buffet on wheels, and the man hiring out pillows and blankets. Five minutes later, the train started off again, asthmatieizing. Narcense sat down again. A newcomer was occupying one of the corner seats left vacant by the departure of the first slumberers. This was a person of extremely singular aspect; not on account of the fact that he possessed two arms, two legs and a head, but because these arms, these legs and this head were of such exiguous dimensions that it would have been possible, without much fear of being mistaken, to call the man a dwarf. What was more, a pointed white beard adorned his face, in which scintillated two beady eyes; the beard reached as far as the penultimate button of his waistcoat, starting from the top.
He asked if it was all right to leave the light on. It didn’t worry Narcense. Wasn’t sleepy. The dwarf began to read a number of Gay Paris with great attention. When he’d finished, he crumpled it up, threw it under the seat and started muttering into his beard: “What a life, what a life, what a life,” which made Narcense laugh; he had been scrutinizing this odd bird for the past forty-five minutes.
“Anything wrong?” he asked him, nicely.
“Shit,” replied the dwarf, and, taking a tiny comb out of the top right-hand pocket of his waistcoat, he started to comb out his tangled, whitish beard.
Narcense didn’t insist. When he’d finished combing his beard the little creature picked his nose with an index finger, contemplated at length the product of his explorations, and then rolled it up into a ball.
“It’s awful, it’s awful,” he started grumumbling again. “What a job!”
“What job?”
“That any of your business?”
Narcense was
Just his imagination. Still, if it’ll please him, she’ll tell him. Right. So long.
No sooner has Mme. Cloche disappeared around the corner than Mme. Belhôtel number two reappears.
“The old bitch gone?”
“Mm hm, she’s gone.”
“What did she have to tell you this time?”
Saturnin gives an accurate report, which is interrupted by the arrival of a telegraph messenger; it’s a telegram for Narcense. This is a rare and important occurrence. Will they have time to steam it open and discover some secret? ...
Saturnin seals the telegram up again; nothing of any interest; “Grandmother dead.” That’s not a secret. They’d have known about it anyway.
—oooooo—oooooo—
The night light revealed three to four shapes, deflated by slumber, trying in vain to find a comfortable position to sleep in. The head of one of them, who was merely sitting, was oscillating; the feet of another adjoined a cavernous face, its eyes bunged up with fatigue and embellished with an incipient rheumy discharge. Narcense, sitting motionless in a corner, with staring eyes, didn’t see the badly dressed bodies but, beyond the brown boards of the third-class coach, caught sight of a house that hadn’t had the strength to reach its second floor and remained acephalous. Now and then his grandmother went by with her retinue of foraging hens and her prehistoric old woman’s idiosyncrasies and her three aggressive teeth and her never-ending need to piss. She’d been a decent old woman. In the kitchen, getting the dinner, that very beautiful woman. One of the slumberers went out into the corridor, which made the man next to him move restlessly and automatically take up more room. The other came back a few minutes later and insinuated himself into the reduced space.
A multiplicity of little lights announced the approach of a big town. A bridge was suspended over a suburban street. Narcense caught sight of a mangy dog zigzagging about in search of garbage. Then, in the station, the train, gradually, stopped. Some passengers got out, with swollen eyes and flabby hands. Narcense leaned out of the window, watching the people walking up and down and fussing, and the buffet on wheels, and the man hiring out pillows and blankets. Five minutes later, the train started off again, asthmatieizing. Narcense sat down again. A newcomer was occupying one of the corner seats left vacant by the departure of the first slumberers. This was a person of extremely singular aspect; not on account of the fact that he possessed two arms, two legs and a head, but because these arms, these legs and this head were of such exiguous dimensions that it would have been possible, without much fear of being mistaken, to call the man a dwarf. What was more, a pointed white beard adorned his face, in which scintillated two beady eyes; the beard reached as far as the penultimate button of his waistcoat, starting from the top.
He asked if it was all right to leave the light on. It didn’t worry Narcense. Wasn’t sleepy. The dwarf began to read a number of Gay Paris with great attention. When he’d finished, he crumpled it up, threw it under the seat and started muttering into his beard: “What a life, what a life, what a life,” which made Narcense laugh; he had been scrutinizing this odd bird for the past forty-five minutes.
“Anything wrong?” he asked him, nicely.
“Shit,” replied the dwarf, and, taking a tiny comb out of the top right-hand pocket of his waistcoat, he started to comb out his tangled, whitish beard.
Narcense didn’t insist. When he’d finished combing his beard the little creature picked his nose with an index finger, contemplated at length the product of his explorations, and then rolled it up into a ball.
“It’s awful, it’s awful,” he started grumumbling again. “What a job!”
“What job?”
“That any of your business?”
Narcense was
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