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applauds.
    â€œA wretched drummer—,” you think to yourself, “tears up the drum skin.”
    â€œA genius of the wrist flat out—,” remarks an aristocrat in a box seat.
    The young woman sits there, pale as can be—.
    â€œYou look scared to death—,” says the husband, and lays his hand gently on hers.
    â€œNapoleon—!” she whispers.
    â€œWhat’s that?” says the husband.
    â€œHe got so little applause—,” she says, “maybe he’ll be fired—.”
    â€œOh no—,” says the husband, “they’re on contract—. How pale you look—.”
    The young woman gulps: “Napoleon—!”

Twelve
    â€œFishing must be very boring,” said a young lady who knew as much about it as most young ladies.
    â€œIf it were boring I wouldn’t do it,” replied the child with the dirty blond hair and gazelle-like legs.
    She stood there with the great unflinching solemnity of the fisherman. She took the little fish off the hook and hurled it to the ground.
    The little fish died—.
    The lake lay there bathed in light and shimmering. It smelled of willows and steaming rotting swamp grass. You could hear the clatter of knives, forks and plates from the hotel. The little fish danced around on the ground a short original fandango like the dance of wild tribes—and died.
    The child kept on fishing, with the great unflinching solemnity of the fisherman.
    â€œJe ne permettrais jamais, que ma fille s’adonnât à une occupation si cruelle.” I’d never let my girl give herself over to such a cruel activity, said an old lady seated nearby.
    The child took the little fish off the hook and once again hurled it to the ground, at the lady’s feet.
    The little fish died—. It lunged upwards and dropped dead—a simple, placid death. It even forgot to dance, gave up the ghost just like that.
    â€œOh—,” said the old lady.
    And yet, in the face of the cruel child with the dirty blond hair you could discern a deepening beauty and the traces of a soul in the making—.
    But the face of the noble lady was languid and pale—.
    She will no longer give anyone joy, light and warmth—.
    That’s why she sympathizes with the little fish.
    Why should it die when it still has life left in it—?
    And yet it lunges up and drops dread—a simple placid death.
    The child keeps on fishing with the great unflinching solemnity of the fisherman. Beautiful beyond description with big, determined eyes, dirty blond hair and gazelle-like legs.
    Perhaps one day the child too will pity a little fish and say: “Je ne permettrais jamais, que ma fille s’adonnât à une occupation si cruelle.” I’d never let my girl give herself over to such a cruel activity—!”
    But such tender stirrings of the soul only burst into bloom at the last resting place of all dashed dreams, all blighted hopes—.
    So fish on, lovely little girl!
    As, oblivious to all, you still bear your beautiful birthright buried in your breast—!
    Kill the little fish and fish on!

Seventeen to Thirty
    I once went to the foremost hairdresser in the capital.
    Everything smelled of Eau de Cologne, of fresh washed linen and fragrant cigarette smoke—Sultan Flor, Cigarettes des Princesses égyptiennes.
    A young girl with light blond silken hair sat at the cash register.
    â€œDear God,” I thought, “a count will surely sweep you off your feet, you lovely thing—!”
    She peered back at me with a look that said: “Whoever you may be, one among thousands, I declare to you that life lies before me, life—! Don’t you know it?!”
    I knew it.
    â€œAh well,” I thought, “it might also be a prince—!”
    She married the proprietor of a café who went bust a year later.
    She was built like a gazelle. Silk and velvet hardly enhanced her beauty—she