*
The edition of Marot safely tucked in his pocket, Victor dined at a smoky brasserie decorated with stained-glass windows. As he left that shrine to the consumption of tough meat and bad wine he noticed the hands on the shiny face of the pneumatic clock were pointing to seven thirty. The show started at eight o’clock.
The busy boulevard was lined with brightly lit pleasure palaces and shimmering signs: a foaming beer glass; a silvery fork, green and red billiard balls. Thousands of shoes clattered over cobblestones glistening in the rain and people leant from cab windows. A coach and four stuck between an advertising vehicle and an upholsterer’s cart managed to break free, spraying the passers-by with dirty water from the gutter.
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