Opposite her was a
_cafe_, at present enlivened by the dashing presence of two
foot-soldiers and an old man playing dominoes with himself.
Above the houses the sky was pale and clear, and from a garden off to
the right at the end of the street came a cooing of wood-pigeons.
Two little boys in black blouses came running up the street, their
sabots clacking against the rough cobbles. Someone was playing a
mandolin, and at the foot of the street, near the bridge, a girl in a
pink apron was flirting with a youth with curly red hair.
People stood by their shop doors, the men smoking small clay pipes, the
women usually with a child or two at their skirts. A quiet scene, dull
and homely, this birthplace of the Conqueror, and at this humble end of
the great street rather pathetic in its aspect of simple relaxation.
Suddenly a little ripple of excited interest touched the groups in the
street. The two soldiers rose and stared hard to their left; M. Perret
of the Pharmacie Normale came out at a quick call from his wife, and
stood, pestle in hand, as she struggled with a maddening knot in the
strings of her black apron.
Brigit, leaning out still further, laughed aloud.
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