"Well, it was that sign that opened my eyes."
I was all attention by this time, for I distinctly remembered the above mentioned sign. It had puzzled and amused me immensely. Painted in brilliant letters, it ran as follows:
EXCEPTIONAL BARGAIN:
For men having their left foot
amputated and wearing size No. 9.
3 shoes for the right foot—two
black and one tan; excellent
quality, almost like new.
For sale, or exchange for shoes
belonging to the left foot. Must be
of same quality and in like condition.
"I haven't yet made any special effort to ascertain whether there are more amputations of the left than of the right foot," continued Monsieur Laurent; "I suppose it's about equal. Well, my plan is just this. As soon as there's peace I'm going to set up shop on the rue St. Antoine, or the Place de la Bastille. I'll call it 'A la botte de l'amputé,' and I sell my shoes separately instead of in pairs. There's a fortune in it inside of five years."
"Just hear him raving," sighed his wife. "You know well enough, Laurent, that just so soon as the war is over we're going to sell out, and with the money, your pension, and what we've saved up, we'll go out to the Parc St. Maur, buy a little cottage and settle down. I'll raise a few chickens and some flowers, and you can go fishing in the Seine all day long."
"But the economical struggle?"
"You let the economical struggle take care of itself. Now, with your mad idea, just suppose those who had a right foot all wanted tan shoes, and those who had a left couldn't stand anything but black? I'd like to know where you'd be then? Stranger things than that have happened."
Laurent gazed at his wife in admiration.
"With all your talk about the future, it seems to me we've been down here a long time since that last explosion."