3i 
He was a young man with a warm look, with a cheek of 
faience, a planetary eye. Molded in a light grey suit, legs with 
out genuflexions, shoulder extended with rubber, solitary fingers 
like cow’s hooves, he longs for fresh blood, the sea air, boxing. 
He carries a little trunk full of socks, a lorgnette and New 
York. 
I hurry behind him, pen in hand. 
—“Jerome, what kind of weather is it?” 
—“It rains!” 
The Loustic frees itself from the rubbish of cables, anchors, 
women, from plaits of hemp; molting; suddenly appears smooth 
and new, serpent, fish, gelatine. It glides upon a sea with cab 
bages, with a sound of screws, snails and cabin boys. Already, 
yonder, the coast of France shades off. A block of houses 
becomes an ant hill; a tree, pipe; the estuary, string to cut 
butter. An odor of gramineous plants, of cattle, of tar gives up, 
and suddenly goes under. A daughter of Caux is plunged in up 
to her headdress. Soon the whole of France is only a horizontal 
line. And already, the evening breaks this line. 
At table we make the acquaintance of our heroine. You of 
course thought that sooner or later I was going to pull a woman 
out of my box of tricks. Here she is. Marcelle is twenty-one, 
she has several sous, the wit of a swallow, a plum coloured dress. 
She changes her poodle every time she changes her hat. In 
storms she has a muff of white bear. When the wind quiets 
down, she slips on colocynth gloves. In short a French woman 
like many another: a little eatable heart, a pair of silk stockings 
and a powder box. . The rest into the bargain. 
Besides all are French on the Loustic. The Dutch, in polder 
gloves, are from the lie de France; the Yankees come from 
Nice; a Spaniard speaks of Montparnasse; the Brazilians, the 
Peruvians are originally from Auvergne; the Swedes come from 
Ardeche and the Poles from Picardy. The little boys have an 
air of Toulon, the little girls of La Rochelle. A golden Chinese 
springs from Roche-Guyon. 
They serve French food, measured, luke warm, in the form 
of hills, wheat, acacias. 
After dinner, upon the bridge, one smokes, one reads, a la 
Franqdise. Marcelle reads Marcel (Prevost, what!)