Ça Ira
I had alighted at Barvilles only because I had read in a guide (I don’t know which): “Fine gallery, two Rubenses, one Teniers, one Ribera.”
So I thought: Let’s go and see it. I will dine at the Hôtel de l’Europe, which the guide declares to be admirable, and set out again tomorrow.
The gallery was closed: it was opened only when travellers asked to see it; it was opened now at my request, and I could contemplate some obscure daubs attributed by a highly imaginative caretaker to the finest masters of painting.
Then I found myself all alone, in the long street of a small town quite strange to me, built in the very middle of illimitable plains; and, having absolutely nothing to do, I walked the whole length of this artery, I investigated several uninteresting shops; then, as it was only four o’clock, I was seized by one of those despondent moods which overwhelm the most spirited of us.
What could I do? Heaven help me, what could I do? I would have given twenty pounds for the suggestion of any conceivable amusment. Finding my mind barren of ideas, I decided merely to smoke a good cigar, and I went in search of the tobacco shop. I recognised it very shortly by its red lantern, and I went in. The saleswoman proffered me several boxes to choose from; having glanced at the cigars, which I perceived to be as bad as possible, I directed my attention, quite by chance, to the woman in charge.
She was a woman of about forty-five years of age, stout and turning grey. She had a plump, decent-looking face, which seemed to me somehow familiar. However, I did not know this lady. No, most assuredly I did not know her. But could it be that I had met her? Yes, that was possible. The face in front of me must be an acquaintance known only to me by sight, an old acquaintance since lost to view, changed now, and certainly grown much stouter.
I murmured:
“Forgive me, Madame, for staring at you like this, but I seem to have known you for a long time.”
She answered, blushing:
“It’s funny. I feel the same.”
I gave a cry:
“Oh! Ça ira!”
She flung up both hands in exaggerated despair, absolutely overwhelmed by my words, and stammered:
“Oh, suppose someone hears you.”
Then she herself cried suddenly:
“Well, I never! It’s you, George!”
Then she looked round in terror lest anyone were listening. But we were alone, quite alone.
“Ça ira.” How ever had I succeeded in recognising Ça ira, the skinny Ça ira, the forlorn Ça ira in this placid and stout official of the Government?
Ça ira. What memories woke to sudden life in my heart: Bougival, La Grenouillère, Chatou, the Restaurant Fournaise, long days spent in skiffs along the riverside, ten years of my life spent in this corner of the country, on this delightful stretch of river.
At that time we were a company of twelve, living in Galopois’ place, at Chatou, and leading there a queer enough life, always half naked and half drunk. The habits of the present-day boating man are considerably changed. Nowadays these gentlemen wear monocles.
In our set we had a score of river girls, regulars and casuals. Some Sundays we had four; on other Sundays they were all there. Some of them were, so to speak, members of the family; the others came when they had nothing better to do. Five or six lived in communal fashion on the men who had no women, and among these was Ça ira.
She was a thin and wretched girl, and walked with a limp. This lent her the charms of a grasshopper. She was nervous, awkward, graceless in everything she did. She attached herself fearfully to the meanest, the most insignificant, the most poverty-stricken of us, who would keep her for a day or a month, according
