Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/366

I had entrusted Madame Olive with my precious snapshots. She was the only photographer in Dunkirk who would promise to develop them tout de suite. When I called at the shop I found the little birdlike creature the centre of a clamorous crowd. Madame was talking hurriedly in a high-pitched voice. "Oui, oui, it will be ready instantly." "But I must have it now," urged a uniformed official. It is for my carte d'identité and I have a train to catch." "Oui, oui, dans un instant."

"Where are my proofs? They were promised a fortnight ago." "I will send them round to you, Mademoiselle." "So you said yesterday—no, I'll wait here." "Très bien, très bien." Où sont nos portraits?" two old souls asked simultaneously. "Are my films ready?" I ventured. "Oui, oui, come down and look at them." Madame seized the opportunity to escape. She drew aside a curtain that divided the studio from the shop. A photographer was posing a workman against a background representing the Garden of Versailles. The man was leaning against a waterfall and facing the camera with a beatific smile. Madame disappeared through the minutest of doors down a spiral staircase. "This way," she cried, and led me into a cupboard. "This is my developing room—look, I have all these plates to develop." "Show me my films," I urged. "But I'm just going to do them. Oh where—oh where did I put your kodak?" "But you said they would be done." "How could they be done? You saw how many people were in the shop. Now I wonder what I did with it? It can't have been your kodak that fell down the stairs. Ah, no, here it is. Now I switch on the red light. There, you see, I put them in the liquid and work them about."

"Madame, madame," came a voice from beyond, "Monsieur wants his picture for his carte d'identité." "Yes, yes, tell him it will be ready in a minute. Where is the plate?" "It is in the little yellow box." "Très bien, très bien; I wonder what has happened to that yellow box? There, now, I leave your films to soak whilst I do some others. See, here is a picture of Granny and Grandpa. It's a pity she's so blurry, and it would have been better if his other shoulder had been in the picture. They should have stood in the centre instead of one at each edge. But then they've been married a long time. Engaged couples are different."

"Madame, madame, Monsieur is getting impatient for his carte d'identité." "Tell him it's just being finished. Oh dear, oh dear, where can it be?" "In the little yellow box, Madame." "But where is the little yellow box? Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, what a life! There, look, yours are coming out. They are going to be excellent. Look at this lady. She's dreadfully smudged—did you ever see such a face? She'll be furious; but in war-time—que voulez-vous?" "Madame, madame, the carte d'identite." "Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, there they are again. Why can't he be patient? Where is the yellow box? Parbleu, it's in my pocket. Tell him you are bringing it up. There, if that isn't vexing; there's something wrong with the plate. He'll have to be done again; nobody could possibly recognise him. Ah, but then it's only for his carte d'identité. What, he says his train has gone? Oh, well, he can have another sitting. He won't? Well, as long as he's satisfied."

"I'd rather develop the photos down here than interview the people upstairs," I remarked. "Yes, yes, they are so exigent. If you leave your films till to-morrow I will print you some copies." Madame seized the tray and we went back into the shop. A newcomer, a sullen and terribly stout woman, had taken her place by the counter. "I have come for my enlargomont," she grunted. "Oui, oui, Madame—it's not back from Paris." "You've had it four months." "Que voulez-vous, Madame? C'est la guerre." "Where is the original?" "Somewhere here in the shop." "But how can they do the enlargement in Paris if the original is here?" "Oh, Madame, I really can't explain—you wouldn't understand if I did." "I'll never come here again. I only came because my family recommended me to come." "Ab, vous voyez—we have always given them satisfaction. Are we to blame for the War? Madame here of the Croix Rouge will tell you how impossible it is to get anything from Paris." "Yes," I assented, "it would be difficult at present to get you enlarged." "Qu'est-ce que je vous ai dit? and you wouldn't believe me." Madame cast an indignant glance at the fat one, who waddled resentfully out of the shop.

She collided in the doorway with a young woman, and after some mutual recriminations Madame was again faced by an angry customer. This time it was a young washerwoman with a brick-red face and a shawl drawn across her ample chest. "You have given mon mari the wrong bébé—this is not my little Albert it is some wretched little girl." "Indeed it isn't," Madame objected strenuously; "it is your little Albert; he wouldn't stay quiet—que voulez-vous?—his face is a little hazy." "I tell you it isn't my Albert; he has a curly head." "Well, it was straight when he came here last week. I remember quite well saying to your mari it was a pity his hair didn't curl." "But the dress—I tell you Albert was breeched." Madame lifted her eyebrows with an air of exasperation. "What have I to do with that? The kodak tells no lies; but if you are dissatisfied cherchez vous-méme." She handed a large drawerful of postcard photographs to the mother. The woman fingered them eagerly, pulling out all the pictures of babies and putting them on one side. "La, la, I have found my bébé," she cried. "Qu'est-ce que je vous ai dit? The other was not my Albert." She hurried out, clutching a picture-postcard. Madame shrugged her shoulders. "They generally choose that one," she said. "It is the picture of my little nephew Charles. Her little Albert's plate was broken. Mais qu'estce qu'on peut? C'est la guerre. Come back to-morrow, Madame, and I will have your pictures printed for you."

The next day was Sunday. The shop was crowded with people disputing their turn to be photographed. The girl behind the counter turned a tearful face to me. "I'll never give them numbers again," she said. "I don't care how muddled they get; Madame blames me quite unfairly." "Can you give me my films?" I interposed meekly. "It's not fair," she sniffled; that marine was number 54 and ———" I turned to Madame. "You promised to print me some copies." "Marie, Marie, what have you done with the films of Madame of the Croix Rouge?" Marie began hastily to search the drawer. "Is this it?" she asked, showing me a picture of two burly soldiers arm-in-arm. I shook my head. "I think it must be yours," declared Madame. "But my snapshots were views," I objected. "One never knows how things will turn out with amateurs," said Madame. "Don't you remember we looked at the films together yesterday? There was one of the market-place and one of———" Madame scratched her head in perplexity. "Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu," she exclaimed suddenly, "it was your films that fell down the drain-pipe when they were hanging out to dry. I'm so désolée, mais vous savez they were not very good, and another time———" "My beautiful films gone!" I cried in dismay. Madame gave me a reproachful look. "Qu'est-ce que je peux, Madame?" she cried. "C'est la guerre."