Finally rises Spanish. Spanish is handsome, and though no more than mere commission of wines, it has a wonderful, awesome. A Greco tauròfil and making comments to the ear of menestraletes passing on their abundance. Of course, it francòfob, and, up to the French coach, has been altívol, unconsciously imitated a Daoiz once saw in an apotheosis of a zarzuela pornographic patriotic to Apollo. Until the Spanish reached the wagon there was absolute silence. But suddenly, lying speech, square dogmatic Cervantes sounds, with that strong injoncció sides:

-Good night, Mrs. -

The French do not answer.

The Catalan who want to sleep, frown and emits a sound indecisive, with a striking reversal of resentment:

-Mmm. -

The Barcelona side that makes living on the streets of Bruch feels a bit restrained. Wonder, in a way, the magnificence of the Spanish, and somehow it n’espaordeix. Returns the good night in Spanish opaque.

The Spanish know, then, what must be his prey. He sits next to the hospital in Barcelona, ​​with a poise and Head of Senior Administration, which is something of the race question:

He-you to Paris? -