The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [220]
He washed, put on clean linen, changed. It was barely twelve-thirty. ‘Three hours and a half,’ he thought, ‘I must do something to fill them…’
Hardly had he opened the door when a servant said: ‘Monsieur?’ Wokulski asked him the way to the stairs, gave the man a franc and hurried down from the third floor like a man pursued. He went out of the gate and stopped on the pavement.
It was a wide street, lined with trees. Just then, half a dozen carriages and a yellow omnibus, weighed down with passengers above and below, flew past him. On the right, far off somewhere, a square could be seen; on the left—at the foot of the hotel—a small awning, under which a throng of men and women sat at small round tables, practically on the pavement, drinking coffee. The men, as though décolleté, wore flowers or ribbons in their button-holes and crossed one leg over the other precisely as high as was appropriate in the vicinity of five-storey houses; the women were slender, slight and dusky, with fiery glances, yet modestly dressed.
Wokulski turned to the left and saw, around the corner of the hotel—that very same hotel!—another awning, another throng of people drinking something alongside the pavement. Here there must have been a hundred people, if not more; the gentlemen wore insolent expressions, the ladies were vivacious, friendly and quite unaffected. One- and two-horse carriages continued to roll by, a constant stream of pedestrians hurried past in both directions, a yellow and green omnibus passed through, its route frequently intersected by that of brown omnibuses, all full up inside, their roofs all loaded down with passengers above.
Wokulski found himself in the middle of a square from which seven streets led off. He counted them once, twice—seven streets…Where was he to go?…In the direction of the trees, perhaps…Two of the streets intersecting at a right angle were thus lined…
‘I will follow the hotel wall,’ thought Wokulski. He made a half turn to the left and stopped, amazed.
In the distance to the left a formidable edifice was visible. On the ground floor, a series of arcades and statues; on the first, huge stone columns and slightly smaller marble ones with gilded capitals. In the corners at the level of the roof were eagles and gilded statues, poised above the gilded forms of capering horses. The roof was smooth at the near end, farther off was a cupola culminating in a crown, and farther still, a three-cornered roof, also bearing a group of figures on its pinnacle. Everywhere marble, bronze, and gold; columns, statues, medallions everywhere…
‘The Opéra?…’ thought Wokulski. ‘But there is more marble and bronze here than in the whole of Warsaw?…’ Recalling his shop, the pride of the city, he coloured, and walked on. He felt that Paris had overwhelmed him at the very first step and—he was content.
The traffic of omnibuses and pedestrians grew at an alarming rate. Every few paces found verandahs, little round tables, people sitting by the pavement. A carriage, with a footman behind, was followed by a cart pulled by a dog, an omnibus overtook him, then two people with handbarrows, then a larger cart with two wheels, then a lady and gentlemen on horseback and again an endless stream of carriages. Closer, by the pavement, stood a cart with flowers, another with fruit; opposite was a pieman, a news vendor, a junk dealer, a knife grinder, a bookseller…
‘M’rchand d’habits…’
‘Figaro!…’
‘Exposition!…’
‘Guide Parisien!…trois francs!…trois francs!…’
Someone thrust a book into Wokulski’s hand. He paid three francs and crossed the street. He walked quickly, but despite this he could see that everything was overtaking him: carriages and dogs. Why, this was some great race; and so he quickened his pace, and though he still overtook no one, he was now attracting attention. He was solicited