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The Morgue George Brandimbourg.

The Morgue

A Jules Roques.

Oh! Those who go with

hungry and thirsty beak! ...

(Marc Legrand)

He descended boulevards, as a man who is not in a hurry. He paused at every street corner, not to let the cars, but to inspect the floor.

And he stooped to pick up a cigar end.

And, sadly, with effort dragging his legs loose in his pants too broad, he continued his way.

Suddenly, before him, he saw a great light, red as fire, with glints of gold: an orchestra thrown into the street rhythms of a waltz. And the wind slapping the trees brought to the tramp of rustling of dresses and the echo of laughter colliding.

Opposite, a bakery, whence intoxicating scents of fresh bread, opened its doors. A growing crush tortured by slow cooking, gilded by the hot breath of furnaces, attracted his attention.

He paused.

A baker, strangled with a handkerchief dusty, half-dressed in a coat that exceeded both legs of bone excoriated crust dough, appeared bent under the weight of enormous long loaves, round, squared, with a uniform color staining them warm, and Grimes flour as the face of an old coquette.

He saw the baker and thought it would be very happy in the midst of so many rolls. And long time He looked at the pile of buns, raisin buns of these afflicted black warts.

Several times he felt his pocket, but only to cigarette butts rested limply in the poisonous smell of waste pipes.

Then, turning toward the ball, he began to think ... The wind moaned

.

"Come on! Walk! Do not stop! The wind whistles in his ear like a bullet. Can not you hear your bones crack in their Glen? Come on! Walk! Walk! The cold is watching you: it is death! Walk! Walk! Follow the highway so long, so long, they seem to lead to the vastness blue, always works, always! You will not reach the stars that glow in the dark horizon. Walk! There is no rest for you. "

But he was not listening to the wind moaned that.

Spectrum or dead, he no longer heard.

His eyes now reflected the icy swirl of white shoulders, and flashes the ball, and fever embraces ...

a time when the "muddy" collect garbage, he was brought to the morgue.

And his eyes, which had retained their fixed strange sensation of things seen, filled the morgue of a large clear, red as fire, with hints of gold.

And everything was red.

Reds, where the walls dripped with tears of sleeping, red, the flesh of the stunned gaping wounds, red eyes gouged out, red, swollen bellies, red, the thinness of the hungry, red, horrible rictus of corpses see death ...

And the wind that swept the streets slipped under the door, giving them the rhythm of the waltz, the rustling of dresses and the echo of laughter colliding.

Then his eyes glazed wept like a thaw, and became extinct: the morgue became black.

Then, the Seine flowing at the foot of the walls went up strange sounds similar to the groans of deaf great pain ...

George Brandimbourg .

Email French, Grade 6, No. 27, July 7, 1889.

Brandimbourg in Livrenblog : Brinn 'Gaubast, Clerget, Morice ... by George Brandimbourg .