Café Progrès de l éloquence

The Haute-Normandie Louviers & Tableau Co. sold saltboxes to cow herders and dandies. The Musée des décors de Théâtre, d'Opéra et de Cinéma Georges placed saltboxes at the downstairs exits and fire exits, Wakhévitch Maurice Duruflé of Louveciennes and his compatriot Yvelines Marly-le-Roi smoked, with aplomb and leisure, outside the downstairs fire exit, Pierre Mendès, a Sephardi Frenchman from Σεφάρδο, and Jean Nicolle Michel Linant, a dandy from Perley sans la rue, ate lunch at Café Progrès de l'éloquence de Louis le Grand Jean-Baptiste Gauthier, neither aware that the other was wearing Bon Mot under drawers.

The shamble leg man, though nowhere to be seen, was arranging geodesic squares, rhomboids and triangles. He did this, arranging, when he couldn’t keep his halfwits about him, times when everything seemed inside outside, left right, up down, over there over here. He let the feeling ebb and flow, triangles turning into geodesic squares, right angles into left, halfwits into dimwits. Jean Nicolle Michel Linant, a dandy from Perley sans la rue, sat on his saltbox counting backwards from a thousand, his lips trembling, the sky turning blacker by the moment. Wakhévitch Maurice Duruflé of Louveciennes, having lost his compatriot, looked over his shoulder, Monsignor Marly-le-Roi leaning against an unlit lamp awaiting the arrival of the lamplighter, who was 27½ minutes overdue. Seeing that this was doing him no good, Monsignor Wakhévitch Maurice Duruflé turned, and as he was bidding everyone a fond adieux fell head over heel onto the blacktop, his eyes straining the see beyond the tip of his nose. ‘…such oddities…’ thought the shamble leg man, his eyes stinging.

At that moment the lamplighter came scurrying around the corner, his smoldering wick-lighter held out in front of him like a majorette’s wand. ‘…your late…’ said Wakhévitch Maurice Duruflé, his nose sniffling. ‘…and for good reason…’ said the lamplighter, the smell of kerosene filling the cool night air with a disturbing pong. After lighting the lamp, which glimmered like a falling star, he added ‘…have you no idea how many lamps there are and how much time it takes to light them all…?’ ‘…I dare say no, I do not…’ said Monsignor Wakhévitch Maurice Duruflé, his face red with impatience. ‘…then keep your cake hole shut, damn you…’ said the lamplighter. Pierre Mendès, a Sephardi Frenchman from Σεφάρδο, ran quickly past, his hair standing up on end like a fright wig. ‘...damn you...’ he bellowed, ‘…damn you all…’.