“Good morning, m’sieu.  How goes it?”

My dream was over.  I saw the Seine distinctly in the sunlight, and, coming along a path, the garde champetre of the district, who with his right hand touched his kepi braided in silver.  I replied: 

“Good morning, Marinel.  Where are you going?”

“I am going to look at a drowned man whom they fished up near the Morillons.  Another who has thrown himself into the soup.  He even took off his trousers in order to tie his legs together with them.”