He saw a mother feeding her baby. She was a large, full-breasted
woman, and the baby's dimpled hand almost disappeared in her bosom.
The schoolmaster turned away with a feeling of loathing. He was
annoyed to see these strangers in _his_ park. It was very much like
the servants using the drawing-room when their master and mistress had
gone out; moreover, he couldn't forgive them their plainness.
He arrived at the glass verandah, and put his hand on the door handle,
thinking once more of the stewed perch "with lots of parsley," when
his eyes fell on a notice on the door. There was no necessity to read
it, he knew its purport: the restaurant was closed on midsummer-day;
he had forgotten it. He felt as if he had run with his head into a
lamp-post. He was furious; first of all with the proprietor for
closing, then with himself for having forgotten that the restaurant
would be closed. It seemed to him so monstrous that he could have
forgotten an incident of such importance, that he couldn't believe it
and racked his brain to find someone on whom he could lay the blame.
Of course, it was the fault of the proprietor. He had run off the
lines, come into collision. He was done. He sat down on the seat and
almost shed tears of rage.
Pages:
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103