"Papa, what does 'oysters' mean?" I repeated.

"It is an animal . . . that lives in the sea."

I instantly pictured to myself this unknown marine animal. . . . I
thought it must be something midway between a fish and a crab. As
it was from the sea they made of it, of course, a very nice hot
fish soup with savoury pepper and laurel leaves, or broth with
vinegar and fricassee of fish and cabbage, or crayfish sauce, or
served it cold with horse-radish. . . . I vividly imagined it being
brought from the market, quickly cleaned, quickly put in the pot,
quickly, quickly, for everyone was hungry . . . awfully hungry!
From the kitchen rose the smell of hot fish and crayfish soup.

I felt that this smell was tickling my palate and nostrils, that
it was gradually taking possession of my whole body. . . . The
restaurant, my father, the white placard, my sleeves were all
smelling of it, smelling so strongly that I began to chew. I moved
my jaws and swallowed as though I really had a piece of this marine
animal in my mouth . . .

My legs gave way from the blissful sensation I was feeling, and I
clutched at my father's arm to keep myself from falling, and leant
against his wet summer overcoat. My father was trembling and
shivering. He was cold . . .

"Papa, are oysters a Lenten dish?" I asked.

"They are eaten alive . . ." said my father. "They are in shells