Zilia
08-01-2011, 09:30 AM
Bastien
Paris, 1860
The rain fell through thick mist moving steadily, as a sheet, to the right of my vision, obscuring the streets of Paris and I in a damp fog. The rain smack-smack-smacked the poor old cobblestones, and also my poor, newly shined black-leather shoes as I anxiously shifted from foot to foot. For days I had been turning over a most unpleasant question in my mind, and the moment had arrived where I had to make a decision. There was I, my fine three-piece suit soaked, and new hat dripping water from its brim upon my uncomfortably cold nose, torn between two sides of the street and unable to choose between them - even for subjection to the night sky’s deluge. The rain held no regard for the still-fresh pain of my outer ear. I felt the wound delicately, where nearly half of my outer ear was missing, due to an unfortunate accident.
But worse was the turmoil within myself, as my mind struggled to make a final choice between two sides of the street. On the one side was where I came from, the Hôtel les Rives de Notre Dame, where in my tasteful room was a bed of thick duck-down covers should I wish to use my room key. But! On the other side of the street, well, there existed that thing which tore my mind apart, forcing me to stand in this most curious spot until my anxious feet would march with purpose toward one destiny, or the other.
Facing the Hôtel les Rives de Notre Dame was the first class Restaurant Soleil. And indeed the establishment was as a sun; it alone shone warmly on this long blue-fogged street. One could not pull one’s eyes from it! Inside were the bourgeoisie: all of them proper ladies and gentlemen; and conversation, rich food, and good warm light setting off so winningly blushing cheeks, sparkling eyes, and the ladies’ gossamer dresses. The dresses reflected such pretty colors as red bows, blue satin and gauzy white. About their elegant gloved fingers rings sparkled as they lifted glasses of champagne, or as one rested a rosy cheek upon her palm to gaze with adoration at her charming gentleman, who would be telling her a story of his travels or some such thing...
But for why I could not bring myself to enter that welcoming place, I admit that there was a certain individual I felt eager but very apprehensive to meet there in that restaurant. As I have said, it was that which tore my mind and left me in such helpless, even deplorable indecision.
I was startled by a carriage’s lamplights and the yell of the driver to get out of the way. I quickly withdrew into the shadows and couldn’t help softly laughing at myself. I was going about this all wrong! I realized that people in the restaurant must have seen me and wondered not only why I gazed into the restaurant from outside, but also why I had no umbrella on a night like tonight, unsheltered and cold. I hated the cold. My suit was soaked to the skin. My heart longed to hide away in my private, safe little room on the second story of the Hôtel les Rives de Notre Dame, where I could enjoy a little brandy and a little reading and then fall asleep in my warm bed...but no. The thing I have always prided in myself most is in getting the job done, and in doing it well. And now, I had a job to do.
I strode to the hotel entrance and ignored the strange looks from people who witnessed me drip water on the polished marble floor. Luckily, no one stopped me. When I stepped off the elevator and opened the door to my suite, I didn’t collapse on the soft pillows of my bed. I changed into my only other suit, swung an umbrella jauntily in hand and not long after I was back on the street again, ready to face that dear old friend of mine in the restaurant.
Outside it had begun to thunder, and when I reached the restaurant windows, I quickly spotted Marcel laughing with the ladies at the bar, indulging himself with women and alcohol as was his habit. Upon his head was a foolish gypsy hat and his clothing seemed outrageously colorful even amongst the flower garden of dresses in the restaurant. His wineglass never seemed to leave his hand, and the whole scene at once reminded me of a jester entertaining a court - or more romantically, a troubadour, as he would wish to be seen. I could tell from his dramatic gestures that he was arguing with a few men at the bar, and these antics seemed to be entertaining a small crowd. Those people were far too fine for him! I felt pangs of longing for such a life, because I knew if I went in, I would not quite belong...just as Marcel did not belong there. I peered into the windows as inconspicuously as I knew how, turning my face to the dark as far as I could while maintaining Marcels’ riotous figure in the scope of my vision. He was making an *** of himself, as usual. This man was a true Bohemian, as any Parisian could tell by his colorful costume and careless behavior.
Paris, 1860
The rain fell through thick mist moving steadily, as a sheet, to the right of my vision, obscuring the streets of Paris and I in a damp fog. The rain smack-smack-smacked the poor old cobblestones, and also my poor, newly shined black-leather shoes as I anxiously shifted from foot to foot. For days I had been turning over a most unpleasant question in my mind, and the moment had arrived where I had to make a decision. There was I, my fine three-piece suit soaked, and new hat dripping water from its brim upon my uncomfortably cold nose, torn between two sides of the street and unable to choose between them - even for subjection to the night sky’s deluge. The rain held no regard for the still-fresh pain of my outer ear. I felt the wound delicately, where nearly half of my outer ear was missing, due to an unfortunate accident.
But worse was the turmoil within myself, as my mind struggled to make a final choice between two sides of the street. On the one side was where I came from, the Hôtel les Rives de Notre Dame, where in my tasteful room was a bed of thick duck-down covers should I wish to use my room key. But! On the other side of the street, well, there existed that thing which tore my mind apart, forcing me to stand in this most curious spot until my anxious feet would march with purpose toward one destiny, or the other.
Facing the Hôtel les Rives de Notre Dame was the first class Restaurant Soleil. And indeed the establishment was as a sun; it alone shone warmly on this long blue-fogged street. One could not pull one’s eyes from it! Inside were the bourgeoisie: all of them proper ladies and gentlemen; and conversation, rich food, and good warm light setting off so winningly blushing cheeks, sparkling eyes, and the ladies’ gossamer dresses. The dresses reflected such pretty colors as red bows, blue satin and gauzy white. About their elegant gloved fingers rings sparkled as they lifted glasses of champagne, or as one rested a rosy cheek upon her palm to gaze with adoration at her charming gentleman, who would be telling her a story of his travels or some such thing...
But for why I could not bring myself to enter that welcoming place, I admit that there was a certain individual I felt eager but very apprehensive to meet there in that restaurant. As I have said, it was that which tore my mind and left me in such helpless, even deplorable indecision.
I was startled by a carriage’s lamplights and the yell of the driver to get out of the way. I quickly withdrew into the shadows and couldn’t help softly laughing at myself. I was going about this all wrong! I realized that people in the restaurant must have seen me and wondered not only why I gazed into the restaurant from outside, but also why I had no umbrella on a night like tonight, unsheltered and cold. I hated the cold. My suit was soaked to the skin. My heart longed to hide away in my private, safe little room on the second story of the Hôtel les Rives de Notre Dame, where I could enjoy a little brandy and a little reading and then fall asleep in my warm bed...but no. The thing I have always prided in myself most is in getting the job done, and in doing it well. And now, I had a job to do.
I strode to the hotel entrance and ignored the strange looks from people who witnessed me drip water on the polished marble floor. Luckily, no one stopped me. When I stepped off the elevator and opened the door to my suite, I didn’t collapse on the soft pillows of my bed. I changed into my only other suit, swung an umbrella jauntily in hand and not long after I was back on the street again, ready to face that dear old friend of mine in the restaurant.
Outside it had begun to thunder, and when I reached the restaurant windows, I quickly spotted Marcel laughing with the ladies at the bar, indulging himself with women and alcohol as was his habit. Upon his head was a foolish gypsy hat and his clothing seemed outrageously colorful even amongst the flower garden of dresses in the restaurant. His wineglass never seemed to leave his hand, and the whole scene at once reminded me of a jester entertaining a court - or more romantically, a troubadour, as he would wish to be seen. I could tell from his dramatic gestures that he was arguing with a few men at the bar, and these antics seemed to be entertaining a small crowd. Those people were far too fine for him! I felt pangs of longing for such a life, because I knew if I went in, I would not quite belong...just as Marcel did not belong there. I peered into the windows as inconspicuously as I knew how, turning my face to the dark as far as I could while maintaining Marcels’ riotous figure in the scope of my vision. He was making an *** of himself, as usual. This man was a true Bohemian, as any Parisian could tell by his colorful costume and careless behavior.