Dream Paris
““Who’s going to fetch the next course?” asked M Jarre, beaming around the table. The wizened old man who had brought us our soup just happened to be passing by.
“Permettez-moi(5)! Il me(5) fera plaisir!”
“Non, non, Gaston!” M Jarre, head of the Banca di Primavera, Parisian Branch, was bubbling over with a desire to help his fellow man. “C’est mon tour! Laissez-moi faire!”
“Non, (5)monsieur! J’y(5) tiens! (5)Vous avez l’air tellement à l’aise là-bas!”
“Well, if that’s what you really want.” M Jarre spoke in English now, I noticed. He looked around regretfully. “I would hate for anyone to think we weren’t following the precepts of the Revolution.”
“Perish the thought!” said M Duruflé, cheerfully. “No one would ever accuse you of that, M Jarre!”
The old man collected the next courses from the counter and began to stagger back to our table. Francis got to his feet to help.
“Sit down,” said the Count. “You’ll embarrass him!”
“But he looks as if he’s going to fall over!”
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