I went back there several times afterward, taking Francis with me, and
it was curious how out of the world one felt. Paris, our Paris, might
have been miles away. I learned to know some of the habitues quite
well--a white-haired old gentleman who always brought bread for the
birds; they knew him perfectly and would flutter down to the Square as
soon as he appeared--a handsome young man with a tragic face, always
alone, walking up and down muttering and talking to himself--he may have
been an aspirant for the Odeon or some of the theatres in the
neighbourhood--a lame man on crutches, a child walking beside him
looking wistfully at the children playing about but not daring to leave
her charge--groups of students hurrying through the gardens on their way
to the Sorbonne, their black leather serviettes under their
arms--couples always everywhere. I don't think there were many
foreigners or tourists,--I never heard anything but French spoken. Even
the most disreputable-looking old beggar at the gate who sold
shoe-laces, learned to know us, and would run to open the door of
the carriage.
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