Monsieur Segotin's Story
nine o'clock. He took an hour between half-past eleven and half-past twelve for a stroll, and his pre-luncheon appetiser in front of one café, and another hour between six and seven for another stroll and his pre-dinner appetiser in front of another café. The rest of the day he passed in his shop, seated with his elbows on the counter smoking his pipe and contemplating through his open doorway the sea and the motley crowd which moved for ever between him and it. At such times "the little ones" were at liberty to do precisely what they pleased, with one exception. There were to be no dealings with the Germans. In the shop, you understand, and strictly in the way of business, it might be allowed; but once outside, "those people" were not supposed to exist for the Mesdemoiselles Segotin.
"You do not like the Germans?" I said to him shortly after we had become acquainted; he had been explaining the rule of conduct which had been laid down for his nieces.
"Well," he replied slowly, "they may be very nice people in their own country. Of that I have no knowledge. But the trouble with them is that they will not stay there. Any country should be good enough for those people, but they evidently don't think that their own is. And they pervade. Monsieur, they pervade. Everywhere they go; everywhere they settle. England is full of them. Both the Americas are full of them. China is full of them. Belgium is full of them. You cannot take a step on
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