DOI Artikel:
Harland, Henry: The bohemian girl
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.21805#0032
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The Bohemian Girl
had looked up. Of course I knew where she had gone first
—but not to cry—to kiss it—to place flowers on it. She
could not cry—not now. She was too happy, happy, happy.
Oh, to be back in Paris, her home, where she had lived with
him, where every stick and stone was dear to her because of
him !
Then, glancing up at the clock, with an abrupt change of key,
“Mais allons donc, paresseux !—You must take me to see the
camarades. You must take me to see Chalks.”
And in the Street she put her arm through mine, laughing and
saying, “ On nous croira fiances.” She did not walk, she tripped,
she all but danced beside me, chattering joyously in alternate
French and English. “I could stop and kiss them all—the men,
the women, the very pavement. Oh, Paris ! Oh, these good,
gay, kind Parisians ! Look at the sky ! look at the view—down
that impasse—the sunlight and shadows on the houses, the door-
ways, the people. Oh, the air ! Oh, the smells ! Que c’est bon
—que je suis contente ! Et dire que j’ai passe cinq mois, mais
cinq grands mois, en Angleterre. Ah, veinard, you—you don’t
know how you’re blessed.” Presently we found ourselves labour-
ing knee-deep in a wave of black pinafores, and Nina had plucked
her bunch of violets from her breast, and was dropping them
amongst eager fingers and rosy cherubic smiles. And it was con-
stantly, “ Tiens, there’s Madame Chose in her kiosque. Bonjour,
madame. Vous allez toujours bien?” and “Oh, look! old
Perronet Standing before his shop in his shirt-sleeves, exactly as he
has stood at this hour every day, winter or summer, these ten
years. Bonjour, M’sieu Perronet.” And you may be sure that
the kindly French Choses and Perronets returned her greetings
with beaming faces. “Ah, mademoiselle, que c’est bon de vous
revoir ainsi. Que vous avez bonne mine!” “ It is so stränge,”
she
The Bohemian Girl
had looked up. Of course I knew where she had gone first
—but not to cry—to kiss it—to place flowers on it. She
could not cry—not now. She was too happy, happy, happy.
Oh, to be back in Paris, her home, where she had lived with
him, where every stick and stone was dear to her because of
him !
Then, glancing up at the clock, with an abrupt change of key,
“Mais allons donc, paresseux !—You must take me to see the
camarades. You must take me to see Chalks.”
And in the Street she put her arm through mine, laughing and
saying, “ On nous croira fiances.” She did not walk, she tripped,
she all but danced beside me, chattering joyously in alternate
French and English. “I could stop and kiss them all—the men,
the women, the very pavement. Oh, Paris ! Oh, these good,
gay, kind Parisians ! Look at the sky ! look at the view—down
that impasse—the sunlight and shadows on the houses, the door-
ways, the people. Oh, the air ! Oh, the smells ! Que c’est bon
—que je suis contente ! Et dire que j’ai passe cinq mois, mais
cinq grands mois, en Angleterre. Ah, veinard, you—you don’t
know how you’re blessed.” Presently we found ourselves labour-
ing knee-deep in a wave of black pinafores, and Nina had plucked
her bunch of violets from her breast, and was dropping them
amongst eager fingers and rosy cherubic smiles. And it was con-
stantly, “ Tiens, there’s Madame Chose in her kiosque. Bonjour,
madame. Vous allez toujours bien?” and “Oh, look! old
Perronet Standing before his shop in his shirt-sleeves, exactly as he
has stood at this hour every day, winter or summer, these ten
years. Bonjour, M’sieu Perronet.” And you may be sure that
the kindly French Choses and Perronets returned her greetings
with beaming faces. “Ah, mademoiselle, que c’est bon de vous
revoir ainsi. Que vous avez bonne mine!” “ It is so stränge,”
she