Now that he could ride a bicycle and pump up a tyre, Icarus, as his nest-egg had vanished, was engaged by M. Berrrier, mechanic, automobilist, garage-owner and repairer. So Icarus learnt to drive an automobile carriage. He went pop-popping down the Avenue de la Grande-Armée, it was delightful. Since he had become an autodidact he was earning money, and in the evenings he would dine alone, and very respectably, in an out of the way restaurant; a different one every evening.
M. BERRRIER Everything all right, then?
ICARUS Yes, Monsieur.
M. BERRRIER You know, your work’s very satisfactory, but there’s one thing that worries me – you always seem to be looking over your shoulder. You haven’t got a crime on your conscience, have you?
ICARUS No, Monsieur.
M. BERRRIER All the same, you do seem suspicious. I’ve been watching you – you always look this way and that before you put your nose outside. Are you afraid of someone, or what?
ICARUS I’m not afraid of anything, Monsieur Berrrier. Only I sometimes say to myself: if there’s a bit of a draught – you never know – I might take wing.
M. BERRRIER. What an idiot you are, Icarus!