The milk is delivered on the hoof,
so to speak.
The grown-ups refuse to make way for you to pass and the swarming
young ones repay you for not killing them by pelting pebbles and
less pleasant things into your face. Beggars in all degrees of
filth and deformity and repulsiveness run alongside the carriage
in imminent danger from the wheels, begging for alms. If you give
them something they curse you for not giving them more, and if you
give them nothing they spit at you for a base dog of a heretic.
But then, what could you naturally expect from a population that
thinks a fried cuttlefish is edible and a beefsteak is not?
Chapter XIV
That Gay Paresis
As you walk along the Rue de la Paix [Footnote: The X being one
of the few silent things in France.] and pay and pay, and keep on
paying, your eye is constantly engaged by two inscriptions that
occur and recur with the utmost frequency. One of these appears
in nearly every shopwindow and over nearly every shopdoor. It
says:
English Spoken Here.
This, I may tell you, is one of the few absolutely truthful and
dependable statements encountered by the tourist in the French
capital. Invariably English is spoken here. It is spoken here
during all the hours of the day and until far Into the dusk of the
evening; spoken loudly, clearly, distinctly, hopefully, hopelessly,
stridently, hoarsely, despondently, despairingly and finally
profanely by Americans who are trying to make somebody round the
place understand what they are driving at.
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