“My friend Paul Beaulieu tells me, m’selle, that this is only the second time that you have visited Montmartre,” he said. “Let me bid you welcome! Montmartre is the town of liberty! Montmartre the sacred hill! Montmartre, the salt of the earth, the mind and navel of the world!”
He shouted the last words and a number of diners at the big table who had obviously heard this speech many times before laughed and cheered him.
Someone shouted for wine. Sarles hurried away and his place was taken by a waiter dressed in the uniform of an Academician.
Paul offered the long hand-written menu to Atalanta and she shook her head.
“You choose for me,” she said. “I am too excited to be hungry.”
He obeyed her and after some consultation with the waiter and then with the wine waiter, he at last turned
