This street, the sink of Alexandria, was at its gayest. The cafes where
cheap liquor is sold were crowded. Soldiers and sailors, natives and the
riffraff of half a dozen nations, jostled one another. The twanging of
guitars and the tinkling of pianos was heard from every house. Women,
underclothed and overpainted, leaned from the upper windows and made
frequent sallies into the street to capture their prey. Loud voices sang
lusty English choruses and French chansonnettes, and Neapolitan songs
tried to assert themselves whenever the uproar ceased for a moment.
Every one talked his, or her, own tongue, and gesture filled in the gaps
when words were wanting. All seemed determined to degrade themselves as
much as possible, and nearly every one seemed supremely happy.
Occasionally there was a fight, and knives were used with unerring
skill; but the mounted police who patrolled the streets, though
overtaxed, managed to preserve a certain amount of order.
Gregorio took very little notice of the scenes through which he passed.
He knew every inch and corner of the quarter that had been his home for
years, and was familiar with most of its inhabitants.
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