XLIV 
  
THE SOUP AND THE CLOUDS 
  
  
MY small beloved mad girl had invited me to 
dinner, and through the open window of the 
dining-room I contemplated the moving archi-
tecture that God has made of vapour, the mar-
vellous buildings of the impalpable, and I said 
to myself in my contemplation, “All these 
phantasmagoria are almost as beautiful as the 
eyes of my beautiful, wild girl with the green 
eyes.” 
And then, suddenly, I received a violent 
blow in the back, and I heard a raucous, 
charming voice, an hysterical voice, a voice 
made hoarse by brandy, the voice of my dear, 
small, well-beloved girl, that said, “When are 
you going to eat your soup, you dirty old 
cloud-monger?”