In which fish swim.
Wonderful.
He is utterly curious. He is utterly hungry. We have bought cheese with
The Zulu's money. Surplice comes up, bows timidly and ingratiatingly with
the demeanour of a million-times whipped but somewhat proud dog. He
smiles. He says nothing, being terribly embarrassed. To help his
embarrassment, we pretend we do not see him. That makes things better:
"_Fromage, monsieur?_"
"_Oui, c'est du frommage._"
"_Ah-h-h-h-h-h-h...._"
his astonishment is supreme. _C'est du frommage._ He ponders this. After
a little
"_Monsieur, c'est bon, monsieur?_"
asking the question as if his very life depended on the answer: "Yes, it
is good," we tell him reassuringly.
"_Ah-h-h. Ah-h._"
He is once more superlatively happy. It is good, _le fromage_. Could
anything be more superbly amazing? After perhaps a minute
"_monsieur--monsieur--c'est chere le fromage?_"
"Very," we tell him truthfully. He smiles, blissfully astonished. Then,
with extreme delicacy and the utmost timidity conceivable
"_monsieur, combien ca coute, monsieur?_"
We tell him. He totters with astonishment and happiness. Only now, as if
we had just conceived the idea, we say carelessly
"_en voulez-vous?_"
He straightens, thrilled from the top of his rather beautiful filthy head
to the soleless slippers with which he promenades in rain and frost:
"_Merci, Monsieur!_"
We cut him a piece.
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