One distinctive feature of the maladroit narration in Eumaeus is its persistent use of italics to highlight foreign words and phrases. Italicizing borrowings from other languages is standard publishing practice, but here they are added mostly to words that have already entered English usage. Whoever is telling the tale wants to appear cosmopolitan, multilingual, au courant, but calling attention to familiar foreign expressions in this way threatens to create the opposite impression. A majority of the exotic words scattered about the prose are French, the most prestigious language for someone seeking to transcend Ireland's provincial insularity. Early in the episode, overuse and misuse of French words suggest an ineffective aping of continental culture, as high-toned language clashes with mundane referents. But as the chapter proceeds the narrator displays more control of these ironic contrasts and more straightforward employment of useful French words––a change that goes hand in hand with greater affirmation of Bloom, whom the narrative is shamelessly flattering.

When a sand-spreader passes Bloom and Stephen in the chapter's second paragraph, "the elder man recounted to his companion à propos of the incident his own truly miraculous escape of some little while back." The hyperbole feels of a piece with the exotic expression. À propos, literally "to the purpose," is a useful phrase and sounds more elegant than "in relation to," but since it entered English centuries ago and is commonly spelled "apropos," in this form it looks pretentious. (Slote, Mamigonian, and Turner observe that it gained currency in English in the 17th century. I will follow their lead in noting the eras in which the chapter's French terms were anglicized, as documented by examples in the OED.) The phrase recurs four more times in Eumaeus, now spelled in the usual English way but still italicized––as if the person writing the chapter knows about its normalization but still wants to be admired for using French.

The third paragraph calls the sex workers of the Monto "fast women of the demimonde." This word has a relevance to prostitution that English words like "underworld" or "underclass" do not, and, as it was fairly new in 1904, using it shows some cultural awareness. Alexandre Dumas coined the word in his play Le demi-monde (1855) to refer to courtesans on the fringes of respectable society––a "half-world" of marginal women kept in fine clothes, and helped out of them, by wealthy patrons. Writers in Victorian England quickly adopted the term so there is probably no need for italics, but readers may wish to give the narrator style points for being up to date on recent French expressions. Problematically, though, this term for rich Parisian mistresses is applied to Dublin's desperate whores. The ironic mismatch could possibly be meant to mock the grimy reality of Monto, but it seems more likely that in reaching for a classy name the narrator is betraying his own imperfect sophistication.

Other French borrowings in the same paragraph support this view, as they seem designed merely to sound cultured. Being "En route" to Eccles Street, a phrase adopted in the 18th century, does not communicate information any better than being "on the way"––it merely boasts a chic elegance. Similarly, at the end of this paragraph Bloom comments on "the desertion of Stephen by all his pubhunting confrères but one." Anglicized since the 15th century, this word has nothing but a snooty air to recommend it over the English "companions."

Several short paragraphs later, Bloom stands "on the qui vive"–– "on the alert"––as Stephen walks over to meet Corley under the railway bridge. Like demimonde this phrase (it entered English early in the 18th century) is worth admiring for its appropriateness to the narrative context. It originated with sentries' challenges: the correct answer to Qui vive? ("[Long] live who?") would have been "Vive le roi!" ("[Long] live the king!"). The vigilance of sentries has relevance to the present situation, as some unknown person has just hailed Stephen from the shadows, late at night, in a bad part of town. But just as calling Bella Cohen's whores demimondaine is a bit over the top, Bloom's standing sentry duty as Stephen talks to Corley seems more than a little melodramatic. Bloom has already evinced discomfort walking in this area at night, and now the French phrase imparts an air of comical seriousness to his vigilance.

Melodrama tips over into absurdity in the cabman's shelter when Bloom orders some coffee and bread "with characteristic sangfroid," a term taken from French in the middle of the 18th century. Literally "cold blood," it denotes composure, calmness, imperturbability––surely an odd condition to attach to the ordering of coffee. In another act of overstatement Stephen is now called Bloom's "protégé"––a "protected one" being shown the ropes by an older, more experienced guide, according to a phrase adopted in the late 18th century. The two men are further said to engage in a "tête-à-tête" or "head-to-head" conversation. This phrase, acquired in the late 17th century, denotes private conversations from which others are excluded, and again there is some appropriateness: Stephen and Bloom are sitting at a table by themselves, not yet talking to others in the shelter. However, the phrase's connotations of intense intimacy could hardly be less "apropos" (that word makes another appearance here), given Stephen's air of barely tolerating Bloom. Like qui vive, these three new terms seem designed to exalt Bloom, flattering him for taking charge of a dicey situation, but their excessiveness invites laughter.

After the sailor interrupts the tête-à-tête the narrative observes, "apropos" of Bloom's ideas of traveling to England, that a steamship line from southeastern Ireland to Wales is "once more on the tapis" in the relevant government agencies. This expression too was anglicized in the late 17th century. Literally "on the carpet" and metaphorically "under discussion," it is less well known than others in the chapter (most English dictionaries do not include it), creating an impression of out-of-the-way learning. But even if the italics may be justified for that reason, the use of an exotic word where a common one would do hinders the communication of information more than it advances it.

A less rare but still pretentiously recherché term appears in the next paragraph when Bloom imagines touring remote spots in Ireland. He reflects that, if reports are true, there are places in Donegal where "the coup d'œil was exceedingly grand." Literally a "stroke of the eye," this expression, absorbed into English in the 18th century, refers to a glance that quickly takes in a scene––what strikes the eye, in other words. The OED cites examples from earlier English travel writing in which the phrase is paired with adjectives like "beautiful" and "magnificent." Its use here feels more to the point than sangfroid, protégé, and tête-à-tête, but tonally ill-advised. Using an uncommon continental expression to describe a scene in rural Ireland is surely un peu pretentious.

In the same discussion of Bloom's wanderlust, the narrative calls on a more familiar French term. Common working men like himself, he opines, "merited a radical change of venue after the grind of city life." Literally a "coming," this word carried the metaphorical sense of an assault in the 14th century, but since the 18th it has come to mean a place where something (a law trial, a performance, a competition) is scheduled to occur. Most readers will recognize the word, but they may wonder why it is being applied to a tourist trip. A similarly strange usage occurs when the sailor's story of a knifing is described as a "harrowing dénouement." Literally an "untying," this French word adopted in the middle of the 18th century usually refers to the point late in a play or novel where plot complications are resolved or clarified. The sailor's story has involved nothing more complicated than a threat of violence being followed by actual violence. Later in Eumaeus this usage is repeated when the business of drunken young men getting into trouble is described as "the usual dénouement." Both uses of the word feel forced and pointless.

Several sentences later, Stephen and Bloom respond to an inane comment by exchanging "glances, in a religious silence of the strictly entre nous variety." This expression meaning "between us," current in English since the 17th century, usually precedes some statement that the speaker hopes will be held in confidence. Since "just between you and me" communicates exactly the same intention, an English speaker's use of the phrase will probably always sound slightly precious. The same could be said, several paragraphs later, of calling Murphy "Our soi-disant sailor." One may wonder why this expression, adopted in the mid-18th century, is ever necessary. If "self-styled" or "self-proclaimed" convey the same idea in English that "self-saying" does in French, why not use the ready-to-hand expressions? This phrase too is repeated later in the chapter: "the soi-disant townclerk Henry Campbell."

Continuing its misleading suggestion of an entre-nous tête-à-tête, the narrative now characterizes Stephen as a person with whom Bloom shares secrets: "— Our mutual friend's stories are like himself, Mr Bloom, apropos of knives, remarked to his confidante sotto voce." Confidant and confidante came into English in the 18th century. (The OED suggests that the feminine form may have been "formed to represent the sound of the French confidente, and that the masculine confidant was formed from it. The feminine is the more common in use.") Both words denote someone in whom one confides. Bloom does repeatedly divulge confidences to Stephen in Eumaeus, but Stephen seems anything but receptive, and does not reciprocate, so the label does not suit him.

Up to this point, one may fairly conclude that the ironic disconnects between words and events suggest bumbling ineptitude on both the narrator's part and Bloom's. But at some point very near the middle of the chapter this contrary tide begins to turn. Relating an ethnic slur about Italians, Bloom supposes that they poach neighbors' cats at night "so as to have a good old succulent tuckin with garlic de rigueur off him or her next day." The stereotyping of Italians is buffoonish, but the use of French is more finely calculated. Adopted in the mid-19th century, de rigueur, literally "of strictness," refers to something made obligatory by current social customs. Applying a phrase born of the French love of haute fashions to the low-class southern Italian love of garlic (with cat flesh, no less) is so strikingly weird that it is hard to imagine it being anything other than an arch attempt at humor. If so, then either Bloom or the narrator is starting to deploy irony less self-destructively.

Irony seems even more clearly intended when, in recounting a discussion of shipping and shipwrecks, the narrative remarks that the keeper of the shelter is "evidently au fait." Literally "to the fact," this phrase acquired in the mid-18th century means that one is knowledgeable about something, up-to-date on the facts. In this case the keeper, far from saying anything insightful, has only implied that he has some special, undeclared knowledge of shady doings in the shipping business: "There were wrecks and wrecks, the keeper said." Crude conspiracy-theory intimations hardly make one au fait. The same ironic edge attends another French word employed shortly later. When the sailor returns to the alcohol-free shelter, having taken advantage of his absence to imbibe some liquor, he sings a rough sea chanty, "introducing an atmosphere of drink into the soirée." The French tradition of holding elegant "evening" parties, which English speakers have acknowledged since the late 18th century, is so dissimilar from the shabby gathering in the cabman's shelter that one can only assume a sarcastic intent.

The second half of the chapter also features many French terms whose use, while not ironically cutting, is at least straightforward. Bloom imagines a hotblooded Mediterranean husband killing "his adored one as a result of an alternative postnuptial liaison by plunging his knife into her." This familiar French word adopted by English speakers in the early 19th century, literally a "binding," can refer to any connection formed between individuals or groups, but more specifically it denotes an adulterous relationship. The chapter later employs this meaning a second time when Bloom, contemplating his own marriage, thinks of "many liaisons between still attractive married women getting on for fair and forty and younger men." Another very familiar French word appears when the keeper makes a joke and is rewarded with "a fair amount of laughter among his entourage." This useful term for a group of friends, followers, or associates, appropriated in the middle of the 19th century, is literally a "surrounding."

When Bloom shows Stephen an old photo of Molly "in evening dress cut ostentatiously low for the occasion to give a liberal display of bosom," the narrative recalls his reading of a pornographic novel earlier in the day, noting that he "looked away thoughtfully with the intention of not further increasing the other's possible embarrassment while gauging her symmetry of heaving embonpoint." Literally "in good condition" (from en bon point), this compound word denotes healthy plumpness, sometimes specifically with reference to a woman's breasts. It can imply excessive fat, but in The Sweets of Sin the connotations are clearly positive, and, although Ulysses makes clear that Molly has put on a few pounds over the years, most Dubliners do not seem to regard that as a bad thing. Lenehan relishes her mammary amplitude in Wandering Rocks, and in Lestrygonians  Nosey Flynn says, "She’s well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on toast." Here in Eumaeus the French word seems to be not so much flattering Bloom as inhabiting his obsessive fantasies. Even the word "heaving" comes straight from Sweets of Sin, and "gauging her symmetry" comes from the mnemonic he pondered in Aeolus.

Two words follow that are unremarkable except for their superfluous italics. Bloom thinks that Stephen is "educated, distingué." The French version of "distinguished" gained currency in English in the early 19th century but conveys no difference of meaning. Few English speakers will fail to understand the meaning of "fracas," as applied to an 1890 brawl between Parnellites and anti-Parnellites  that supposedly involved the former breaking up the printing presses of United Ireland. The French word, absorbed into English in the 18th century, comes from the Italian fracasso (noise, crashing, uproar, din), which in turn may possibly derive from the Latin frangere (to break).

A third word in this part of the chapter suggests some mastery of both English and French meanings. Bloom recalls that Parnell thanked him for restoring his hat "with perfect aplomb" (19th century). Most English speakers will know the usual meaning of assured self-confidence, but not the etymological sense of being "upright." Perpendicularity is determined in France à plomb, by the lead weight of a plumb line. In this case, the narrator seems to be representing several known qualities of Parnell: his commanding presence, his moral stature (he is always treated respectfully in Ulysses), and his tall, ramrod-straight physical bearing.

The sense of knowledgeable control is maintained in the last few pages of the chapter, starting with Bloom's proposal that he and Stephen "close the séance" and leave the shelter. This noun, adopted late in the 18th century, is known to most English speakers today only in connection with people gathering to receive messages from the dead, but it has a wider range of meanings in French. Literally a "sitting," and by extension a "session," it can refer to assemblies and meetings, and also to other seated activities like posing for a portrait or watching a film. Its use here is contextually appropriate––the two men have sat for some time conducting a conversation––but the narrator also seems to be commenting ironically on the gathering in the shelter, which little resembles a legislature, court, or council. That arch tone is certainly intended in the following sentence, when Bloom and Stephen leave "the shelter or shanty together and the élite society of oilskin and company." This word, imported into English early in the 19th century, denotes a small group whose abilities make them superior to the rest of society––hardly the case here.

Discussing music with Stephen in the street outside the shelter, Bloom remarks that "he had a penchant, though with only a surface knowledge, for the severe classical school such as Mendelssohn." Calling Mendelssohn severely classical betrays limited musical knowledge––his compositions combine the Mozartian formal control of the old classical style with the expressive emotional fervor of the romantic movement––but the use of the French word is unremarkable. Literally an "inclining," English speakers have used it since the 17th century to express a strong inclination or liking, and its pronounciation is regularly anglicized as PEN-chunt.

In the next sentence Bloom refers to the "old favorites" of the Dublin concert repertoire and mentions "par excellence Lionel's air in Martha, M'appari." Literally "by excellence," the phrase means "above all" or "pre-eminently" in French and has carried the same meaning in English since the 16th century. Another perfectly unremarkable usage comes when Bloom imagines that Stephen's lovely tenor voice might gain him "an entrée into fashionable houses in the best residential quarters." The French word means simply "entry," but since the 18th century it has given English a way of denoting permission to enter places normally barred to outsiders.

In the sense intended in the penultimate paragraph of Eumaeus, a "contretemps," anglicized in the early 19th century, is something happening "against time"–– an inopportune occurrence or mishap. In this case the street sweeper's horse is depositing three large smoking turds on the stones which Stephen and Bloom are approaching. That fact might be regarded as untimely, but Bloom, "profiting" from the driver's humane decision to let his animal rest while relieving himself, takes the opportunity to safely pass by the stopped machine (a less "miraculous escape" than before, perhaps). Some command of the implications of contre is implicit in the double action narrated here––a threat to forward progress followed by a countering of that threat.

By the time Stephen and Bloom are again seen engaged in a "tête-à-tête" in the chapter's final sentence, their interaction has warmed to the point that this term for an exclusive one-on-one conversation seems quite possibly merited. Engaged in animated discussion of topics of mutual interest, they occupy an intensely private space that the driver of the car is "utterly out of." Readers may realize, in retrospect, that the improvement in the relationship of the two protagonists has been occurring in tandem with the narrator's subtly improving uses of French. For some time, the fancy French expressions have ceased to backfire on the narrator or subject Bloom to ridicule. It seems that French may, in fact, be an appropriate native language for Dubliners who aspire to a measure of continental sophistication.
 
Many of the French expressions detailed here suggest that the narrative is performing free indirect approximation of Bloom's states of mind, and indeed his quoted speech shows a penchant for French expressions like the ones employed by the narrator: "— A gifted man, Mr Bloom said of Mr Dedalus senior, in more respects than one and a born raconteur if ever there was one." No one should suppose that Bloom is narrating the chapter, but its prose does display affectations that he might adopt were he somewhat better educated and more seriously devoted to writing. Eumaeus makes Bloom a risible figure at the beginning only to redeem him by the end, and it does something similar with French expressions, modulating their use so that by the final pages they feel less pretentious, more natural.

Joyce may have done this to further the impression that the feckless Bloom could possibly be a worthy companion for Stephen. The younger man is fluent in French and fills the pages of Proteus with a blizzard of foreign expressions: French, Italian, Latin, Greek, German, Spanish, Swedish, Irish. He wields such idioms far more ably than the narrator of Eumaeus but, even when the prose of the later chapter appears inept, its flurry of French, Italian, and Latin words recalls similar effects in Proteus. By the end of the chapter Stephen is singing an "old German song" to Bloom, in German. In Ithaca the two men exchange the snippets of Irish and Hebrew that they know. The multilingual borrowings that feel like ludicrous pomposity at the beginning of Eumaeus offer something more by its conclusion: a point of contact between two men who, according to the first page of Ithaca, "Both preferred a continental to an insular manner of life."

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John Hunt 2024