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"From our hearts we rejoice to have thee safely back!" they chorused in
Montmartre. "And what didst thou see in London?"
"Oh, mon Dieu, what noble sights!" exclaimed Tricotrin. "The Lor' Maire blazes with jewels like the Shah of Persia; and compared with Peeccadeelly, the Champs Elysées are no wider than a hatband. Vive l'Entente! Positively my brain whirls with all the splendours of London I have seen!"
THE INFIDELITY OF MONSIEUR NOULENS
Whenever they talk of him, whom I will call "Noulens"—of his novels, his method, the eccentricities of his talent—someone is sure to say, "But what comrades, he and his wife!"—you are certain to hear it. And as often as I hear it myself, I think of what he told me that evening —I remember the shock I had.
At the beginning, I had expected little. When I went in, his wife said, "I fear he will be poor company; he has to write a short story for La Voix, and cannot find a theme—he has been beating his brains all day." So far, from anticipating emotions, I had proposed dining there another night instead, but she would not allow me to leave. "Something you say may suggest a theme to him," she declared, "and he can write or dictate the story in an hour, when you have gone."
So I stayed, and after dinner he lay on the sofa, bewailing the fate that had made him an author. The salon communicated with his study, and through the open door he had the invitation of his writing-table—the little sheaf of paper that she had put in readiness for him, the lighted lamp, the pile of cigarettes. I knew that she hoped the view would stimulate him, but it was soon apparent that he had ceased to think of a story altogether. He spoke of one of the latest murders in Paris, one sensational enough for the Paris Press to report a murder prominently—of a conference at the Université des Annales, of the artistry of Esther Lekain, of everything except his work. Then, in the hall, the telephone bell rang, and madame Noulens rose to receive the message. "Allô! Allô!"
She did not come back. There was a pause, and presently he murmured:
"I wonder if a stranger has been moved to telephone a plot to me?"
"What?" I said.