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The gabble in this close
apartment was terrific. Joseph, the maitre d'hotel, rapped in vain a
dozen times for silence. The chef poked his head of a truculent Gascon
through the door and indulged in a war of wit with a long fellow from
Marseilles,--called the "mast" because he was very tall and thin, and
had cooked in the galley of a Mediterranean trading brig. From time to
time one of the piccolos, a fat little boy from the South, carried in
pitchers of flat beer, brewed in the suburbs. As it was a hot day, he
was kept busy. The waiters had gone through a trying morning; there were
many strangers in Paris. Outside, the Boulevard des Italiens, despite
its shade trees, broiled under a torrid July sun that swam in a
mercilessly blue sky.
The majority of the men were listening to gossip about their colleagues
in the Cafe Cardinal across the way. Ambroise alone sat apart and patted
and smoothed the salt in its receptacles. He was a young man from some
little town in Alsace, a furious patriot, and the butt of his
companions--for he was the latest comer in the Cafe Riche.


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