Little did he guess, Private Bru, that every time he passed her shop its owner noticed him. He walked very naturally, joyfully clad in khaki, his hair, what you could see of it, under his kepi, his hair neatly cut and as you might say glazed, his hands along the seam of his trousers, his hands, one of which, the right one, kept rising at irregular intervals to show respect to someone of superior rank or to answer the greeting of some demilitarised personage. Never suspecting that an admiring eye was piercing him every day on the route that led him from the barracks to the office, Private Bru, who in general thought of nothing but, when he did, had a preference for the Battle of Jena, Private Bru moved with unconscious ease. With his unconsciously grey-blue eyes, his puttees gallantly and unconsciously wound, Private Bru naively carried with him everything necessary to please a maiden lady who was neither altogether young nor altogether a maiden.
Julia pinched her sister Chantal's arm and said:
"There he is."
Lurking behind an amorphous clutter of cotton reels and buttons, they watched him go by, without a word. Their silence was caused by the intensity of their examination. Had they spoken, he would not have heard them.
[The Sunday of Life, Queneau, R.]
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