'No one goes into Paris,' said Barnet.
'But, Monsieur, that is very unenterprising,' the man by the wayside
submitted.
'The danger is too great. The radiations eat into people's skins.'
The eyebrows protested. 'But is nothing to be done?'
'Nothing can be done.'
'But, Monsieur, it is extraordinarily inconvenient, this living in exile
and waiting. My wife and my little boy suffer extremely. There is a lack
of amenity. And the season advances. I say nothing of the expense and
difficulty in obtaining provisions. . . . When does Monsieur think that
something will be done to render Paris--possible?'
Barnet considered his interlocutor.
'I'm told,' said Barnet, 'that Paris is not likely to be possible again
for several generations.'
'Oh! but this is preposterous! Consider, Monsieur! What are people like
ourselves to do in the meanwhile? I am a costumier. All my connections
and interests, above all my style, demand Paris. . . .'
Barnet considered the sky, from which a light rain was beginning to
fall, the wide fields about them from which the harvest had been taken,
the trimmed poplars by the wayside.
'Naturally,' he agreed, 'you want to go to Paris. But Paris is over.'
'Over!'
'Finished.'
'But then, Monsieur--what is to become--of ME?'
Barnet turned his face westward, whither the white road led.
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