Little Poems in Prose

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?”