Incidentally this acceleration of
luncheon gave Saturday, for all of us, an individual character, kindly and
rather attractive. At the moment when, ordinarily, there was still an hour
to be lived through before meal-time sounded, we would all know that in a
few seconds we should see the endives make their precocious appearance,
followed by the special favour of an omelette, an unmerited steak. The
return of this asymmetrical Saturday was one of those petty occurrences,
intra-mural, localised, almost civic, which, in uneventful lives and
stable orders of society, create a kind of national unity, and become the
favourite theme for conversation, for pleasantries, for anecdotes which
can be embroidered as the narrator pleases; it would have provided a
nucleus, ready-made, for a legendary cycle, if any of us had had the epic
mind. At daybreak, before we were dressed, without rhyme or reason, save
for the pleasure of proving the strength of our solidarity, we would call
to one another good-humoredly, cordially, patriotically, "Hurry up;
there's no time to be lost; don't forget, it's Saturday!" while my aunt,
gossiping with Francoise, and reflecting that the day would be even longer
than usual, would say, "You might cook them a nice bit of veal, seeing
that it's Saturday.
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