She sat in her window watching them till she got so sleepy she could no longer keep her eyes open, then deciding they’d probably keep it up pretty late, till ten or maybe eleven, crawled into bed. It had been a long day since Cherbourg that morning, and in spite of the band, which surely must stop before midnight, she thought she could sleep. But the monotonous, tuneless sound seemed to go round, and round, and round inside her head. She dreamed that she was waltzing rapidly with the _garçon_ of the striped waistcoat, with Madame in her black taffeta dress and wide gold chain, with the black cat of the restaurant. Then woke to hear the band still scraping, and bumping merrily. Foggily she struggled out of bed and closed first the heavy wooden shutters, then the window and went back to sleep with her head hot under the bedclothes. Twice she woke again at odd hours, but always that rhythm penetrated the darkness. Then she woke again. Surprisingly all was still. How blissful that was! She was sure the musicians had stopped only a short time ago, and waited tensely to see if they would start again. But there was no sound. Then rolling over with aching head she saw that light streamed from between the chinks of the shutters, and that her watch said seven o’clock. She opened her window, went back to bed and slept till nine. Then she wandered out to find breakfast. Only a gnawing hunger had made her get up at all. Strangely enough none of the restaurants seemed to be open. She peered in at two, between drawn net curtains, to see chairs piled on empty tables, and boys washing down the floors. Then rounding a corner Cynthia came full on the Seine, between its gray stone banks, and a gray stone bridge beyond which loomed, full in the summer sunlight, the twin towers of Notre Dame de Paris. Oh lovely! Along the embankment were the tiny stalls of the booksellers, all closed now. Didn’t Paris people go to work until noon, she wondered? Then at the end of the block, facing a small open square she saw a sign which read “_Café, Chocolat_.” Here, perhaps, she could get some sort of meal. Outdoors, under a gay striped awning she found a little wicker table with a red and white top, and wicker chairs. A big black cat with a white bib, and green eyes gave her welcome with purrs and ankle rubbings. This was going to be jolly. She stammered her desire for chocolate, and learned that “little breads,” and butter could also be procured, and that little breads were really crisp warm rolls. Notre Dame faced her, serene, solid, impregnable. When breakfast was over she’d go across and visit the church, and stroll along by the river. This must be the famous Left Bank, where all the artists and students lived.