me people rise. He darted forward and conquered the
vacant table by sheer struggling with the mob.

'Ah! dash it! we are here at all events. What will you have to eat?'

Claude made a gesture of indifference. The lunch was execrable; there
was some trout softened by over-boiling, some undercut of beef dried up
in the oven, some asparagus smelling of moist linen, and, in addition,
one had to fight to get served; for the hustled waiters, losing their
heads, remained in distress in the narrow passages which the chairs were
constantly blocking. Behind the hangings on the left, one could hear a
racket of saucepans and crockery; the kitchen being installed there on
the sand, like one of those Kermesse cook-shops set up by the roadside
in the open air.

Sandoz and Claude had to eat, seated obliquely and half strangled
between two parties of people whose elbows almost ended by getting into
their plates; and each time that a waiter passed he gave their chairs
a shake with his hips. However, the inconvenience, like the abominable
cookery, made one gay. People jested about the dishes, different tables
fraternised together, common misfortune brought about a kind of pleasure
party. Strangers ended by sympathising; friends kept up conversations,
although they were seated three rows distant from one another, and
were obliged to turn their heads and gesticulate over their neighbours'
shoulders. The women particularly became animated, at first rather
anxious as to the crush, and then ungloving their hands, catching up
their skirts, and laughing at the first thimbleful of neat wine they
drank.

However, Sandoz, who had renounced finishing his meat, raised his voice
amid the terrible hubbub caused by the chatter and the serving:

'A bit of cheese, eh? And let's try to get some coffee.'

Claude, whose eyes looked dreamy, did not hear. He was gazing into the
garden. From his seat he could see the central clump of verdure, some
lofty palms which stood in relief against the grey hangings with which
the garden was decorated all round. A circle of statues was set out
there; and you could see the back of a faun; the profile of a young
girl with full cheeks; the face of a bronze Gaul, a colossal bit of
romanticism which irritated one by its stupid assumption of patriotism;
the trunk of a woman hanging by the wrists, some Andromeda of the
Place Pigalle; and others, and others still following the bends of the
pathways; rows of shoulders and h