"Des ballons, s'il vous plait. Joujoux," I added. I was told to go
straight on, to turn to the right and the left, to go up three steps and
down three steps--but my mind wandered as it always does when I am
listening to directions that I have to follow. By an unseemly scramble I
got into an over-crowded lift. I seemed to be treading on children and
reclining on tight, upholstered bosoms. At random, I chose the third
floor and found myself among a forest of lamps. Desperately determined
not to risk another struggle for the lift, I tried to find the
staircase. At last, after endless enquiries and--it seemed--going back
five steps for every three I had gone forward, I reached the toy
department. Breathless, bedraggled, hot and exhausted, I clutched the
arm of the first saleswoman I saw. "Des ballons, Madame," I gasped.
She looked at me with contempt, "Les ballons, ca ne se vend pas, ca se
donne."
For a moment I was awed by the aristocratic magnificence of balloons.
How superb, how reckless! Very humbly I appealed to her,
"Pouvez-vous, voulez-vous me donner un ballon?"
"Les ballons, ca ne se donne pas apres cinq heures," she said.
I didn't press her. How could I? By how many thousands of years of
tradition might not the habits of balloons have been fixed? Their lives
were evidently strangely and remotely unlike our lives. Wearily I walked
downstairs, not snubbed but humbled and a little awed.
* * * * *
Half an hour later I was walking down the Champ Elysées sniffing at the
secret violets in the air. I had forgotten Cousin Emily and the world
was full of primroses and larks and light-hearted passers-by. Suddenly,
at the other side of the street I saw a bursting sunshade of balloons,
emerald and ruby, transparent white and thick, solid yellow, a birthday
bouquet from a Titan to his lady. Reverently, lovingly, I looked at
them, my heart full of joy, but I did not cross the street.