And so she meditated in the taxicab as they were on their way to the Louvre. It was a lovely afternoon. Men were fishing from the banks of the Seine, couples browsing along the bookstalls what oddly shaped green boxes! she thought, with the lids propped up and so many maps and pictures on display. And in the Tuileries, with the Louvre in the background, ladies were knitting and children were rolling hoops across the grass. Balloons waved at the end of sticks, or clustered together, bumping against one another in the afternoon breeze, and she noticed, as the taxicab stopped in front of the famous French museum, how many people were going in and out; Paris was really altogether different from Kansas City.
In the Louvre she immediately recognized the Venus de Milo, even though they happened to approach from the rear, and of course the Mona Lisa was unmistakable; it looked exactly like the reproductions. The tapestries seemed familiar somehow; perhaps it was just that most tapestries looked alike, and most Greek vases, and all mummies.
At the end of an hour Mr. Bridge said he thought he would go outside and wait, with the result that she continued through the Louvre alone. It was tiring, but it was exciting, and she knew she would never forget this day; it was with a feeling of regret despite the fact that she was so exhausted she could hardly walk that at last she concluded it was time to leave. Her husband was probably bored to death waiting for her; she felt a little guilty about letting him wait, but knew he would understand. He knew how she had looked forward to visiting the Louvre.
She had not managed to see everything but she reflected as she walked toward the exit that she had seen all the most famous paintings and statuary except the Winged Victory of Samothrace, she thought, and promptly stopped. It had been familiar to her as long as she could remember. There must have been a picture of it in one of her earliest school-books. Even now she could imagine it so clearly: that imperial figure advancing and the drapery streaming backward. How impressive it must be!
“Well/ she said, half aloud, “it may be ages before I’m in the Louvre again, so if I’m going to see it I’d better see it now/*
She looked around, intending to inquire where it was, but for the moment there seemed to be no English-speaking people in the corridor, so she decided to continue to the exit where there should be an information desk, or at least a guard who would understand. She turned the corner and there, all of a sudden, was the Winged Victory. Mrs. Bridge gasped and took a step backward, for the great statue seemed to be bearing down on her and it was the very image of Lois Montgomery in a nightgown*
73. Strangers in Paradise
Next day they went window-shopping along the boulevards near the Opera, and in the course of this stroll Mrs. Bridge became slightly separated from her husband. They were walking slowly up the rue Auber, stopping at whatever interested them, and she had drifted ahead, musing on the difference between Paris and Kansas City, observing the French businessmen who seemed content to loiter for hours in sidewalk cafes, and whose attitude, she reflected, was certainly pleasure before business.
Finding herself alone, she looked back and saw him standing with his arms folded, staring into one of the shop windows. She waited a while, thinking he would be coming along, but whatever he saw had hypnotized him. Her curiosity aroused, she retraced her steps. He sensed her approach and looked around with a start. They wandered along as before, but she had seen the object of his attention: a black lace brassiere with the tips cut off.
The more she mulled over this incident the more concerned she became. The French, after all, might do as they pleased; she need have nothing to do with the French, but she must live with her husband. She had lived with him for a long time now, and assumed she knew whatever was worth knowing about him. True, there were occasional surprises once he had told her, and afterward seemed to regret having divulged the secret, that when he was a boy he used to dream of becoming a great composer but the revelations of his nature had seemed meaningless, no matter how fascinating, and she was not apt to dwell on them, but now she did.
Why had he stood there looking? What had he been thinking? His expression had been so serious. Were there things he had never told her about himself? Who was he, really? From all the recesses of her being came the questions, questions which had never before occurred to her, and there on the foreign street she felt lost and forsaken, and with great longing she began to think of Kansas City.
74. Intellectual Cafe
The guidebook spoke of a cafe called Le Dome as having been the haunt of famous intellectuals at the beginning of the century, so there they went to spend an hour or two.
“Picasso used to linger here/’ Mrs. Bridge read from the book, and she went on to read the names of other celebrated individuals who had taken their leisure on this very terrace.
“Here comes Picasso now/’ said Mr. Bridge.
“Oh, I don’t believe it,” she said, looking up nevertheless. In a moment she saw to whom he was referring; it was Morgan Hager, whom they had not seen for several days. Hager was carrying a portfolio under his arm and he was wearing a beret that for some reason made him resemble a fox. He looked startled when he saw them in the cafe, and for an instant seemed ready to flee, but then he smiled and nodded and came over to join them, placing his portfolio in a corner. Mrs. Bridge thought about asking to see his drawings, and after some hesitation she did so. He said the drawings were not much good and she did not press the matter.
“Well/* he said, “I see you’re still here/’ This was not what he meant to say, so he amended, “I figured you’d probably left/’ Since this was not right either he said, “I never did know what you were doing here/’ He saw Mrs. Bridge smiling courteously and steadily, and Mr. Bridge observing him with frank curiosity, so he took off his beret and scratched his head, gazed around Le Dome in search of something whereby he might distract them from his inability to make conversation, and he exclaimed, “Oh! Look at that!”
Mr. and Mrs. Bridge turned and looked and they saw a shaggy girl, rather pretty in a gypsy sort of way so Mrs. Bridge thought who was wearing a silk blouse that was not tucked into her skirt but was simply tied in a loose knot so that a good deal of midriff was showing. She was laughing and shaking her head in response to the comments of two Frenchmen who were sitting at the next table. One of the Frenchmen took out his wallet and slipped a bill under the saucer of her coffee cup, and at this she promptly untied the knot in her blouse and straightened up, revealing her breast to her neighbors as well as to anyone else who cared to look, whereupon there was a burst of clapping and much laughter not only from the two businessmen but from everyone else in the cafe, with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Bridge.
“Well,” said Morgan Hager suddenly, “I guess I’d better be running along.”
“Oh, must you go?” inquired Mrs. Bridge.
“Yes, there’s a girl at the ho ah, I mean, I’ve got some plans for the next few hours.” He paused. “It’s just that I’d forgotten about Kansas City what the people were like, if you know what I mean.” He stopped again. “Well,” he said, picking up his portfolio, “it’s sure been an experience!”
Mrs. Bridge was not certain what he meant, but replied courteously, “Good-by, Morgan. We’ll tell your parents we saw you.” To which Hager responded with an uneasy grin and vanished swiftly into the crowd on the street.
75. Sidewalk Artist
“I never knew there were so many artists/* she observed as they wandered along the quay. “How do you suppose they keep from starving to death?”