Those who have less money than us do not have the material prerequisites to enjoy life to the full. Unfulfilled cultural aspirations slumber certainly in the worker as well, but don’t forget, Herr Counsellor, the lower orders may want to, but they can’t. I ask you, what interests do these people have? Those who have more money than us are idiots. They may well materially have everything they need, but they don’t have our culture. The nouveau riche, Herr Counsellor, could indeed, but they don’t want to. I ask you, what interests do these people have? The poor rich people, they really don’t get a good press.
Encore. The route is through Toulouse, and the little detour is bound to be a pleasure. All the more so because Toulouse is three carats uglier than Lyon. The remains of beautiful architecture have the appearance of museum pieces. Unfortunately, it is also Sunday, and strolling around the streets are: eight hundred francs monthly salary and a new Sunday suit; a fully furnished, cold betrothal; forty-eight years book-keeping with a modest pension and a small private provision – the people don’t really know what to do with their free afternoon. They just stroll around. All in all a town, as Valéry Larbaud put it, où l’on sent tout l’après-midi une désespérante odeur d’excrément refroidi. So: Albi.