To reach the table mentioned by the waiter, the architect and Pierre had
to cross the dining-room from end to end. It was a long apartment,
painted a light oak colour, an oily yellow, which was already peeling
away in places and soiled with stains in others. You realised that rapid
wear and tear went on here amidst the continual scramble of the big
eaters who sat down at table. The only ornaments were a gilt zinc clock
and a couple of meagre candelabra on the mantelpiece. Guipure curtains,
moreover, hung at the five large windows looking on to the street, which
was flooded with sunshine; some of the fierce arrow-like rays penetrating
into the room although the blinds had been lowered. And, in the middle of
the apartment, some forty persons were packed together at the /table
d'hote/, which was scarcely eleven yards in length and did not supply
proper accommodation for more than thirty people; whilst at the little
tables standing against the walls upon either side another forty persons
sat close together, hustled by the three waiters each time that they went
by. You had scarcely reached the threshold before you were deafened by
the extraordinary uproar, the noise of voices and the clatter of forks
and plates; and it seemed, too, as if you were entering a damp oven, for
a warm, steamy mist, laden with a suffocating smell of victuals, assailed
the face.

Pierre at first failed to distinguish anything, but, when he was
installed at the little table--a garden-table which had been brought
indoors for the occasion, and on which there was scarcely room for two
covers--he felt quite upset, almost sick, in fact, at the sight presented
by the /table d'hote/, which his glance now enfiladed from end to end.
People had been eating at it for an hour already, two sets of customers
had followed one upon the other, and the covers were strewn about in
higgledy-piggledy fashion. On the cloth were numerous stains of wine and