Midway of a winding alley you come to an ancient wall and an ancient
gate crowned with the half-effaced quarterings of an ancient house,
and you halt, almost expecting that the rusted hinges will creak
a warning and the wooden halves begrudgingly divide, and that from
under the slewed arch will issue a most gallant swashbuckler with
his buckles all buckled and his swash swashing; hence the name.
At this juncture you feel a touch on your shoulder. You spin on
your heel, feeling at your hip for an imaginary sword. But 'tis
not Master Francois Villon, in tattered doublet, with a sonnet.
Nor yet is it a jaunty blade, in silken cloak, with a challenge.
It is your friend of the obscene photograph collection. He has
followed you all the way from 1914 clear back into the Middle Ages,
biding his time and hoping you will change your mind about investing
in his nasty wares.
With your wife or your sister you visit the Louvre. You look on
the Winged Victory and admire her classic but somewhat bulky
proportions, meantime saying to yourself that it certainly must
have been a mighty hard battle the lady won, because she lost her
head and both arms in doing it. You tire of interminable portraits
of the Grand Monarch, showing him grouped with his wife, the
Old-fashioned Square Upright; and his son, the Baby Grand; and his
prime minister, the Lyre; and his brother, the Yellow Clarinet,
and the rest of the orchestra.
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