QUARTIER LATINITIES (II) 



Early or late, there is no silence in the Boulevard 

 IMont Parnasse. Not even on Sunday morning after 

 sunrise, when the dew hangs grey on the coloured 

 wire wreaths in the cemetery close by, and the Eiffel 

 Tower, asleep in the haze, might be Jacob's ladder 

 awaiting the angels, or the sea-serpent standing on 

 end. The rhythm of the tram-horses' hoofs has been 

 scarcely forgotten in dreams before it has begun 

 again, with its accompaniment of bleats upon the 

 driver's horn ; the voitures have not ceased to spin over 

 the paving-stones when the monster carts enter on 

 their day's work, rumbling like thunder, causing the 

 very bed of the sleeper to tremble ; the last shop has 

 not slammed its doors before the first cremerie has 

 banged open its shutters; and through it all the 

 conversation of passers-by has been a steady thread 

 of connection. 



Now, at eight o'clock, when nothing except the 

 milkman has stirred the Sunday morning trance of 

 Bayswater, the Boulevard Mont Parnasse is in the 

 full swing of business. A man in blue linen, with 

 panes of glass strapped on his back, is chanting the 

 word, " Vi-tri-er ! " in a strong nasal tenor, a boy is 

 advertising goats' milk by a shrill tune played on a 

 reed pipe, while his five black goat -ladies pace before 

 him, discreet and cunning-eyed; two women are 

 cleaning and re-making a wool mattress upon a large 

 frame stretched under the trees ; they stab it through 



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