French Decadent Tales (Oxford World's Classics) - Plot & Excerpts
He might have said We, like the Pope, and resembled an encyclical. His face, turned out by the shovelful, belonged to that numberless category, the thick-set Southerner, that no breeding can ever refine, and about whom everything is false, even the grossness… He was unable to reply immediately, for he was in a state, and trying hard, at that moment, to be a somebody. His large, vacant eyes rolled in their sockets, like those games of chance in which the marble seems to hesitate, before falling into the numbered hole that decides the destiny of an imbecile. ‘Well, dammit all,’ he exclaimed at last, in a strong Toulouse accent, ‘I haven’t come to your shop in search of fire and brimstone. I want you to print out a hundred wedding invitations.’ ‘Very good, Sir. Here are some models for you to choose from. Would Sir care for our luxury option, printed on Ivory, or on Japanese Imperial?’ ‘Luxury? What else! One doesn’t get married every day of the week. I did assume you wouldn’t print it out on toilet paper.
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