“Papa, what does ‘oysters’ mean?” I asked in a husky voice, making an effort to turn my face towards my father.

My father did not hear.  He was keeping a watch on the movements of the crowd, and following every passer-by with his eyes. . . .  From his eyes I saw that he wanted to say something to the passers-by, but the fatal word hung like a heavy weight on his trembling lips and could not be flung off.  He even took a step after one passer-by and touched him on the sleeve, but when he turned round, he said, “I beg your pardon,” was overcome with confusion, and staggered back.

“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 like tortoises, but . . . in two halves.”

The delicious smell instantly left off affecting me, and the illusion vanished. . . .  Now I understood it all!

“How nasty,” I whispered, “how nasty!”

So that’s what “oysters” meant!  I imagined to myself a creature like a frog.  A frog sitting in a shell, peeping out from it with big, glittering eyes, and moving its revolting jaws.  I imagined this creature in a shell with claws, glittering eyes, and a slimy skin, being brought from the market. . . .  The children would all hide while the cook, frowning with an air of disgust, would take the creature by its claw, put it on a plate, and carry it into the dining-room.  The grown-ups would take it and eat it, eat it alive with its eyes, its teeth, its legs!  While it squeaked and tried to bite their lips. . . .