The two old taverns at
Arles are quite unimproved; such as they must have been in the infancy of
the modern world, when Stendhal passed that way, and the lumbering
diligence deposited him in the Place des Hommes, such in every detail they
are to-day. Vieilles auberges de France, one ought to enjoy their gritty
floors and greasy windowpanes. Let it be put on record, therefore, that I
have been, I won't say less comfortable, but at least less happy, at
better inns.
To be really historic, I should have mentioned that before going to look
for the Rhone I had spent part of the evening on the opposite side of the
little place, and that I indulged in this recreation for two definite
reasons. One of these was that I had an opportunity of conversing at a
cafe with an attractive young Englishman, whom I had met in the afternoon
at Tarascon, and more remotely, in other years, in London; the other was
that there sat enthroned behind the counter a splendid mature Arlesienne,
whom my companion and I agreed that it was a rare privilege to
comtemplate.
There is no rule of good manners or morals which makes it improper, at a
cafe to fix one's eyes upon the dame de comptoir; the lady is, in the
nature of things, a part of your "consommation.
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