Pathetic! Yes, that’s what it was. And all because of the curfew! And the gasolene and diesel fuel restrictions, of course. St-Cyr flung the cigarette butt away as he strode beneath the first of the colossal iron-and-glass pavilions that had once contained the heart and pulse of Paris and its environs. Because of the curfew, the farmers couldn’t get their produce to market until two or three in the afternoon when, normally, they would have started the long journey homeward. Because of the fuel restrictions and the requisition of virtually all motor vehicles, only a paltry number of gasogenes struggled into the city, to here. Others, of course, had better luck but they unloaded at the best hotels and restaurants, or sold straight off the back and quickly. As a result, a flourishing black market existed and those without the cash or trade went hungry while in the north, milk was being fed to the pigs and the potatoes were all being shipped to Germany. ‘The Boches are fools,’ he said to the cavern of that empty place.
