Chapter IV: Le Nouveau (2)

The excellent person at the bread table hereupon said to me: “You shall go to the window and say I tell you to ask for spoon and you will catch one spoon”—and I broke through the waiting line, approached the kitchen-window, and demanded of a roguish face within:

“A spoon, please.”

The roguish face, which had been singing in a high faint voice to itself, replied critically but not unkindly:

“You’re a new one?”

I said that I was, that I had arrived late last night.

It disappeared, reappeared, and handed me a tin spoon and cup, saying:

“You haven’t a cup?”—“No” I said.

“Here. Take this. Quick.” Nodding in the direction of the Surveillant, who was standing all this time on the stairs behind me.

I had expected from the cook’s phrase that something would be thrown at me which I should have to catch, and was accordingly somewhat relieved at the true state of affairs. On re-entering the _salle à manger_ I was greeted by many cries and wavings, and looking in their direction perceived everybody uproariously seated at wooden benches which were placed on either side of an enormous wooden table. There was a tiny gap on one bench where a place had been saved for me by B., with the assistance of Monsieur Auguste, Count Bragard, Harree and several other fellow-convicts. In a moment I had straddled the bench and was occupying the gap, spoon and cup in hand, and ready for anything.

The din was perfectly terrific. It had a minutely large quality. Here and there, in a kind of sonal darkness, solid sincere unintelligible absurd wisps of profanity heavily flickered. Optically the phenomenon was equally remarkable: seated waggingly swaying corpselike figures, swaggering, pounding with their little spoons, roaring, hoarse, unkempt. Evidently Monsieur le Surveillant had been forgotten. All at once the roar bulged unbearably. The roguish man, followed by the _chef_ himself, entered with a suffering waddle, each of them bearing a huge bowl of steaming something. At least six people immediately rose, gesturing and imploring: “_Ici_”—“_Mais non, ici_”—“_Mettez par ici_”—

The bearers plumped their burdens carefully down, one at the head of the table and one in the middle. The men opposite the bowls stood up. Every man seized the empty plate in front of him and shoved it into his neighbour’s hand; the plates moved toward the bowls, were filled amid uncouth protestations and accusations—“_Mettez plus que ça_”—“_C’est pas juste, alors_”—“_Donnez-moi encore de pommes_”—“_Nom de Dieu, il n’y a pas assez_”—“_Cochon, qu’est-ce qu’il veut?_”—“Shut up”—“_Gott-ver-dummer_”—and returned one by one. As each man received his own, he fell upon it with a sudden guzzle.

Eventually, in front of me, solemnly sat a faintly-smoking urine-coloured circular broth, in which soggily hung half-suspended slabs of raw potato. Following the example of my neighbours, I too addressed myself to _La Soupe_. I found her luke-warm, completely flavourless. I examined the hunk of bread. It was almost bluish in colour; in taste mouldy, slightly sour. “If you crumb some into the soup,” remarked B., who had been studying my reactions from the corner of his eye, “they both taste better.” I tried the experiment. It was a complete success. At least one felt as if one were getting nourishment. Between gulps I smelled the bread furtively. It smelled rather much like an old attic in which kites and other toys gradually are forgotten in a gentle darkness.

B. and I were finishing our soup together when behind and somewhat to the left there came the noise of a lock being manipulated. I turned and saw in one corner of the _salle à manger_ a little door, shaking mysteriously. Finally it was thrown open, revealing a sort of minute bar and a little closet filled with what appeared to be groceries and tobacco; and behind the bar, standing in the closet, a husky, competent-looking lady. “It’s the canteen,” B. said. We rose, spoon in hand and breadhunk stuck on spoon, and made our way to the lady. I had, naturally, no money; but B. reassured me that before the day was over I should see the Gestionnaire and make arrangements for drawing on the supply of ready cash which the _gendarmes_ who took me from Gré had confided to The Surveillant’s care; eventually I could also draw on my account with Norton-Harjes in Paris; meantime he had _quelques sous_ which might well go into chocolate and cigarettes. The large lady had a pleasant quietness about her, a sort of simplicity, which made me extremely desirous of complying with B.’s suggestion. Incidentally I was feeling somewhat uncertain in the region of the stomach, due to the unique quality of the lunch which I had just enjoyed, and I brightened at the thought of anything as solid as chocolate. Accordingly we purchased (or rather B. did) a _paquet jaune_ and a cake of something which was not Meunier. And the remaining _sous_ we squandered on a glass apiece of red acrid _pinard_, gravely and with great happiness pledging the hostess of the occasion and then each other.

With the exception of ourselves hardly anyone patronized the canteen, noting which I felt somewhat conspicuous. When, however, Harree Pompom and John the Bathman came rushing up and demanded cigarettes my fears were dispelled. Moreover the _pinard_ was excellent.

“Come on! Arrange yourselves!” the bull-neck cried hoarsely as the five of us were lighting up; and we joined the line of fellow-prisoners with their breads and spoons, gaping, belching, trumpeting fraternally, by the doorway.

“_Tout le monde en haut!_” this _planton_ roared.

Slowly we filed through the tiny hall, past the stairs (empty now of their Napoleonic burden), down the corridor, up the creaking gnarled damp flights, and (after the inevitable pause in which the escort rattled chains and locks) into The Enormous Room.

This would be about ten thirty.

Just what I tasted, did, smelled, saw, and heard, not to mention touched, between ten thirty and the completion of the evening meal (otherwise the four o’clock soup) I am quite at a loss to say. Whether it was that glass of _pinard_ (plus, or rather times, the astonishing exhaustion bequeathed me by my journey of the day before) which caused me to enter temporarily the gates of forgetfulness, or whether the sheer excitement attendant upon my ultra-novel surroundings proved too much for an indispensable part of my so-called mind—I do not in the least know. I am fairly certain that I went on afternoon promenade. After which I must surely have mounted to await my supper in The Enormous Room. Whence (after the due and proper interval) I doubtless descended to the clutches of _La Soupe Extraordinaire_… yes, for I perfectly recall the cry which made me suddenly to re-enter the dimension of distinctness … and by Jove I had just finished a glass of _pinard_… somebody must have treated me … we were standing together, spoon in hand … when we heard—

“_A la promenade_,” … we issued _en queue_, firmly grasping our spoons and bread, through the dining-room door. Turning right we were emitted, by the door opposite the kitchen, from the building itself into the open air. A few steps and we passed through the little gate in the barbed wire fence of the _cour_.

Greatly refreshed by my second introduction to the canteen, and with the digestion of the somewhat extraordinary evening meal apparently assured, I gazed almost intelligently around me. Count Bragard had declined the evening promenade in favour of The Enormous Room, but I perceived in the crowd the now familiar faces of the three Hollanders—John, Harree and Pompom—likewise of The Bear, Monsieur Auguste, and Fritz. In the course of the next hour I had become, if not personally, at least optically acquainted with nearly a dozen others.

Somewhat overawed by the animals Harree and Pompom (but nevertheless managing to overawe a goodly portion of his fellow-captives) an extraordinary human being paced the _cour_. On gazing for the first time directly at him I experienced a feeling of nausea. A figure inclined to corpulence, dressed with care, remarkable only above the neck—and then what a head! It was large, and had a copious mop of limp hair combed back from the high forehead—hair of a disagreeable blond tint, dutch-cut behind, falling over the pinkish soft neck almost to the shoulders. In this pianist’s or artist’s hair, which shook en masse when the owner walked, two large and outstanding and altogether brutal white ears tried to hide themselves. The face, a cross between classic Greek and Jew, had a Reynard expression, something distinctly wily and perfectly disagreeable. An equally with the hair blond moustache—or rather mustachios projectingly important—waved beneath the prominent nostrils, and served to partially conceal the pallid mouth, weak and large, whose lips assumed from time to time a smile which had something almost foetal about it. Over the even weaker chin was disposed a blond goatee. The cheeks were fatty. The continually perspiring forehead exhibited innumerable pinkish pock-marks. In conversing with a companion this being emitted a disgusting smoothness, his very gestures were oily like his skin. He wore a pair of bloated wristless hands, the knuckles lost in fat, with which he smoothed the air from time to time. He was speaking low and effortless French, completely absorbed in the developing ideas which issued fluently from his mustachios. About him there clung an aura of cringing. His hair whiskers and neck looked as if they were trick neck whiskers and hair, as if they might at any moment suddenly disintegrate, as if the smoothness of his eloquence alone kept them in place.

We called him Judas.

Beside him, clumsily keeping the pace but not the step, was a tallish effeminate person whose immaculate funereal suit hung loosely upon an aged and hurrying anatomy. He wore a big black cap on top of his haggard and remarkably clean-shaven face, the most prominent feature of which was a red nose, which sniffed a little now and then as if its owner was suffering from a severe cold. This person emanated age, neatness and despair. Aside from the nose which compelled immediate attention, his face consisted of a few large planes loosely juxtaposed and registering pathos. His motions were without grace. He had a certain refinement. He could not have been more than forty-five. There was worry on every inch of him. Possibly he thought that he might die. B. said “He’s a Belgian, a friend of Count Bragard, his name is Monsieur Pet-airs.” From time to time Monsieur Pet-airs remarked something delicately and pettishly in a gentle and weak voice. His adam’s-apple, at such moments, jumped about in a longish slack wrinkled skinny neck which was like the neck of a turkey. To this turkey the approach of Thanksgiving inspired dread. From time to time M. Pet-airs looked about him sidewise as if he expected to see a hatchet. His hands were claws, kind, awkward and nervous. They twitched. The bony and wrinkled things looked as if they would like to close quickly upon a throat.

B. called my attention to a figure squatting in the middle of the _cour_ with his broad back against one of the more miserable trees. This figure was clothed in a remarkably picturesque manner: it wore a dark sombrero-like hat with a large drooping brim, a bright red gipsy shirt of some remarkably fine material with huge sleeves loosely falling, and baggy corduroy trousers whence escaped two brown, shapely, naked feet. On moving a little I discovered a face—perhaps the handsomest face that I have ever seen, of a gold brown color, framed in an amazingly large and beautiful black beard. The features were finely formed and almost fluent, the eyes soft and extraordinarily sensitive, the mouth delicate and firm beneath a black moustache which fused with the silky and wonderful darkness falling upon the breast. The face contained a beauty and dignity which, as I first saw it, annihilated the surrounding tumult without an effort. Around the carefully formed nostrils there was something almost of contempt. The cheeks had known suns of which I might not think. The feet had travelled nakedly in countries not easily imagined. Seated gravely in the mud and noise of the _cour_, under the pitiful and scraggly _pommier_… behind the eyes lived a world of complete strangeness and silence. The composure of the body was graceful and Jovelike. This being might have been a prophet come out of a country nearer to the sun. Perhaps a god who had lost his road and allowed himself to be taken prisoner by _le gouvernement français_. At least a prince of a dark and desirable country, a king over a gold-skinned people who would return when he wished to his fountains and his houris. I learned upon inquiry that he travelled in various countries with a horse and cart and his wife and children, selling bright colours to the women and men of these countries. As it turned out, he was one of the Delectable Mountains; to discover which I had come a long and difficult way. Wherefore I shall tell you no more about him for the present, except that his name was Joseph Demestre.

We called him The Wanderer.

I was still wondering at my good luck in occupying the same miserable yard with this exquisite personage when a hoarse, rather thick voice shouted from the gate: “_L’américain!_”

It was a _planton_, in fact the chief _planton_ for whom all ordinary _plantons_ had unutterable respect and whom all mere men unutterably hated. It was the _planton_ into whom I had had the distinguished honour of bumping shortly after my visit to _le bain_.

The Hollanders and Fritz were at the gate in a mob, all shouting “Which” in four languages.

This _planton_ did not deign to notice them. He repeated roughly “_L’américain._” Then, yielding a point to their frenzied entreaties: “_Le nouveau_.”

B. said to me “Probably he’s going to take you to the Gestionnaire. You’re supposed to see him when you arrive. He’s got your money and will keep it for you, and give you an allowance twice a week. You can’t draw more than 20 francs. I’ll hold your bread and spoon.”

“Where the devil is the American?” cried the _planton_.

“Here I am.”

“Follow me.”

I followed his back and rump and holster through the little gate in the barbed wire fence and into the building, at which point he commanded “Proceed.”

I asked “Where?”

“Straight ahead” he said angrily.

I proceeded. “Left!” he cried. I turned. A door confronted me. “_Entrez_,” he commanded. I did. An unremarkable looking gentleman in a French uniform, sitting at a sort of table. “_Monsieur le médecin, le nouveau._” The doctor got up. “Open your shirt.” I did. “Take down your pants.” I did. “All right.” Then, as the _planton_ was about to escort me from the room: “English?” he asked with curiosity. “No” I said, “American.” “_Vraiment_”—he contemplated me with attention. “South American are you?” “United States” I explained. “_Vraiment_”—he looked curiously at me, not disagreeably in the least. “_Pourquoi vous êtes ici?_” “I don’t know” I said smiling pleasantly, “except that my friend wrote some letters which were intercepted by the French censor.” “Ah,” he remarked. “_C’est tout._”

And I departed. “Proceed!” cried the Black Holster. I retraced my steps, and was about to exit through the door leading to the _cour_, when “Stop! _Nom de Dieu!_ Proceed!”

I asked “Where?” completely bewildered.

“Up,” he said angrily.

I turned to the stairs on the left, and climbed.

“Not so fast there,” he roared behind me.

I slowed up. We reached the landing. I was sure that the Gestionnaire was a very fierce man—probably a lean slight person who would rush at me from the nearest door saying “Hands up” in French, whatever that may be. The door opposite me stood open. I looked in. There was the Surveillant standing, hands behind back, approvingly regarding my progress. I was asking myself, Should I bow? when a scurrying and a tittering made me look left, along a dark and particularly dirty hall. Women’s voices … I almost fell with surprise. Were not those shadows’ faces peering a little boldly at me from doors? How many girls were there—it sounded as if there were a hundred—

“_Qu’est-ce que vous faites_,” etc., and the _planton_ gave me a good shove in the direction of another flight of stairs. I obligingly ascended; thinking of the Surveillant as a spider, elegantly poised in the centre of his nefarious web, waiting for a fly to make too many struggles….

At the top of this flight I was confronted by a second hall. A shut door indicated the existence of a being directly over the Surveillant’s holy head. Upon this door, lest I should lose time in speculating, was in ample letters inscribed:

GESTIONNAIRE

I felt unutterably lost. I approached the door. I even started to push it.

“_Attends, Nom de Dieu._” The _planton_ gave me another shove, faced the door, knocked twice, and cried in accents of profound respect: “Monsieur le Gestionnaire”—after which he gazed at me with really supreme contempt, his neat pig-like face becoming almost circular.

I said to myself: This Gestionnaire, whoever he is, must be a very terrible person, a frightful person, a person utterly without mercy.

From within a heavy, stupid, pleasant voice lazily remarked:

“_Entrez._”

The _planton_ threw the door open, stood stiffly on the threshold, and gave me the look which _plantons_ give to eggs when _plantons_ are a little hungry.

I crossed the threshold, trembling with (let us hope) anger.

Before me, seated at a table, was a very fat personage with a black skull cap perched upon its head. Its face was possessed of an enormous nose, on which pince-nez precariously roosted; otherwise the face was large, whiskered, very German and had three chins. Extraordinary creature. Its belly, as it sat, was slightly dented by the table-top, on which table-top rested several enormous tomes similar to those employed by the recording angel on the Day of Judgment, an inkstand or two, innumerable pens and pencils, and some positively fatal looking papers. The person was dressed in worthy and semi-dismal clothes amply cut to afford a promenade for the big stomach. The coat was of that extremely thin black material which occasionally is affected by clerks and dentists and more often by librarians. If ever I looked upon an honest German jowl, or even upon a caricature thereof, I looked upon one now. Such a round fat red pleasant beer-drinking face as reminded me only and immediately of huge meerschaum pipes, Deutsche Verein mottos, sudsy seidels of Wurtzburger, and Jacob Wirth’s (once upon a time) brachwurst. Such pin-like pink merry eyes as made me think of Kris Kringle himself. Such extraordinarily huge reddish hands as might have grasped six seidels together in the Deutsche Küchen on 13th street. I gasped with pleasurable relief.

Monsieur le Gestionnaire looked as if he was trying very hard, with the aid of his beribboned glasses and librarian’s jacket (not to mention a very ponderous gold watch-chain and locket that were supported by his copious equator) to appear possessed of the solemnity necessarily emanating from his lofty and responsible office. This solemnity, however, met its Waterloo in his frank and stupid eyes, not to say his trilogy of cheerful chins—so much so that I felt like crying “Wie gehts!” and cracking him on his huge back. Such an animal! A contented animal, a bulbous animal; the only living hippopotamus in captivity, fresh from the Nile.

He contemplated me with a natural, under the circumstances, curiosity. He even naively contemplated me. As if I were hay. My hay-coloured head perhaps pleased him, as a hippopotamus. He would perhaps eat me. He grunted, exposing tobacco-yellow tusks, and his tiny eyes twittered. Finally he gradually uttered, with a thick accent, the following extremely impressive dictum:

“_C’est l’américain._”

I felt much pleased, and said “_Oui, j’suis américain, Monsieur._”

He rolled half over backwards in his creaking chair with wonderment at such an unexpected retort. He studied my face with a puzzled air, appearing slightly embarrassed that before him should stand _l’américain_ and that _l’américain_ should admit it, and that it should all be so wonderfully clear. I saw a second dictum, even more profound than the first, ascending from his black vest. The chain and fob trembled with anticipation. I was wholly fascinated. What vast blob of wisdom would find its difficult way out of him? The bulbous lips wiggled in a pleasant smile.

“_Voo parlez français._”

This was delightful. The _planton_ behind me was obviously angered by the congenial demeanour of Monsieur le Gestionnaire, and rasped with his boot upon the threshold. The maps to my right and left, maps of France, maps of the Mediterranean, of Europe, even, were abashed. A little anaemic and humble biped whom I had not previously noted, as he stood in one corner with a painfully deferential expression, looked all at once relieved. I guessed, and correctly guessed, that this little thing was the translator of La Ferté. His weak face wore glasses of the same type as the hippopotamus’, but without a huge black ribbon. I decided to give him a tremor; and said to the hippo “_Un peu, Monsieur_,” at which the little thing looked sickly.

The hippopotamus benevolently remarked “_Voo parlez bien_,” and his glasses fell off. He turned to the watchful _planton_:

“_Voo poovez aller. Je vooz appelerai._”

The watchful _planton_ did a sort of salute and closed the door after him. The skullcapped dignitary turned to his papers and began mouthing them with his huge hands, grunting pleasantly. Finally he found one, and said lazily:

“_De quelle endroit que vooz êtes?_”

“_De Massachusetts_,” said I.

He wheeled round and stared dumbly at the weak faced one, who looked at a complete loss, but managed to stammer simperingly that it was a part of the United States.

“UH.” The hippopotamus said.

Then he remarked that I had been arrested, and I agreed that I had been arrested.

Then he said “Have you got any money?” and before I could answer clambered heavily to his feet and, leaning over the table before which I stood, punched me gently.

“Uh,” said the hippopotamus, sat down, and put on his glasses.

“I have your money here,” he said. “You are allowed to draw a little from time to time. You may draw 20 francs, if you like. You may draw it twice a week.”

“I should like to draw 20 francs now” I said, “in order to buy something at the canteen.”

“You will give me a receipt,” said the hippopotamus. “You want to draw 20 francs now, quite so.” He began, puffing and grunting, to make handwriting of a peculiarly large and somewhat loose variety.

The weak face now stepped forward, and asked me gently: “Hugh er a merry can?”—so I carried on a brilliant conversation in pidgeon English about my relatives and America until interrupted by

“Uh.”

The hip had finished.

“Sign your name, here,” he said, and I did. He looked about in one of the tomes and checked something opposite my name, which I enjoyed seeing in the list of inmates. It had been spelled, erased, and re-spelled several times.

Monsieur le Gestionnaire contemplated my signature. Then he looked up, smiled and nodded recognition to someone behind me. I turned. There stood (having long since noiselessly entered) The Fencer Himself, nervously clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back and regarding me with approval, or as a keeper regards some rare monkey newly forwarded from its habitat by Hagenbeck.

The hippo pulled out a drawer. He found, after hunting, some notes. He counted two off, licking his big thumb with a pompous gesture, and having recounted them passed them heavily to me. I took them as a monkey takes a cocoanut.

“Do you wish?”—the Gestionnaire nodded toward me, addressing the Fencer.

“No, no” the Fencer said bowingly. “I have talked to him already.”

“Call that _planton!_” cried Monsieur le Gestionnaire, to the little thing. The little thing ran out dutifully and called in a weak voice “_Planton!_”

A gruff but respectful “_Oui_” boomed from below-stairs. In a moment the _planton_ of _plantons_ had respectfully entered.

“The promenade being over, you can take him to the men’s room,” said the Surveillant, as the Hippo (immensely relieved and rather proud of himself) collapsed in his creaking chair.

Feeling like a suit-case in the clutches of a porter, I obediently preceded my escort down two flights, first having bowed to the hippopotamus and said “_Merci_”—to which courtesy the Hippo paid no attention. As we went along the dank hall on the ground floor, I regretted that no whispers and titters had greeted my descent. Probably the furious _planton_ had seen to it that _les femmes_ kept their rooms in silence. We ascended the three flights at the farther end of the corridor, the _planton_ of all _plantons_ unlocked and unbolted the door at the top landing, and I was swallowed by The Enormous Room.

I made for B., in my excitement allowing myself to wave the bank-notes. Instantly a host had gathered at my side. On my way to my bed—a distance of perhaps thirty feet—I was patted on the back by Harree, Pompom and Bathhouse John, congratulated by Monsieur Auguste, and saluted by Fritz. Arriving, I found myself the centre of a stupendous crowd. People who had previously had nothing to say to me, who had even sneered at my unwashed and unshaven exterior, now addressed me in terms of more than polite interest. Judas himself stopped in a promenade of the room, eyed me a moment, hastened smoothly to my vicinity, and made a few oily remarks of a pleasant nature. Simultaneously by Monsieur Auguste Harree and Fritz I was advised to hide my money and hide it well. There were people, you know … who didn’t hesitate, you understand…. I understood, and to the vast disappointment of the clamorous majority reduced my wealth to its lowest terms and crammed it in my trousers, stuffing several trifles of a bulky nature on top of it. Then I gazed quietly around with a William S. Hart expression calculated to allay any undue excitement. One by one the curious and enthusiastic faded from me, and I was left with the few whom I already considered my friends; with which few B. and myself proceeded to wile away the time remaining before _Lumières Éteintes_.

Incidentally, I exchanged (in the course of the next two hours) a considerable mass of two legged beings for a number of extremely interesting individuals. Also, in that somewhat limited period of time, I gained all sorts of highly enlightening information concerning the lives, habits and likes of half a dozen of as fine companions as it has ever been my luck to meet or, so far as I can now imagine, ever will be. In prison one learns several million things—if one is _l’américain_ from _Mass-a-chu-setts_. When the ominous and awe-inspiring rattle on the further side of the locked door announced that the captors were come to bid the captives good night, I was still in the midst of conversation and had been around the world a number of times. At the clanking sound our little circle centripetally disintegrated, as if by sheer magic; and I was left somewhat dizzily to face a renewal of reality.

The door shot wide. The _planton’s_ almost indistinguishable figure in the doorway told me that the entire room was dark. I had not noticed the darkness. Somebody had placed a candle (which I recalled having seen on a table in the middle of the room when I looked up once or twice during the conversation) on a little shelf hard by the cabinet. There had been men playing at cards by this candle—now everybody was quietly reposing upon the floor along three sides of The Enormous Room. The _planton_ entered. Walked over to the light. Said something about everybody being present, and was answered by a number of voices in a more or less profane affirmative. Strutted to and fro, kicked the cabinet, flashed an electric torch, and walked up the room examining each _paillasse_ to make sure it had an occupant. Crossed the room at the upper end. Started down on my side. The white circle was in my eyes. The _planton_ stopped. I stared stupidly and wearily into the glare. The light moved all over me and my bed. The rough voice behind the glare said:

“_Vous êtes le nouveau?_”

Monsieur Auguste, from my left, said quietly:

“_Oui, c’est le nouveau._”

The holder of the torch grunted, and (after pausing a second at B.’s bed to inspect a picture of perfect innocence) banged out through the door which whanged to behind him and another _planton_, of whose presence I had been hitherto unaware. A perfect symphony of “_Bonne nuits_” “_Dormez biens_” and other affectionate admonitions greeted the exeunt of the authorities. They were advised by various parts of the room in divers tongues to dream of their wives, to be careful of themselves in bed, to avoid catching cold, and to attend to a number of personal wants before retiring. The symphony gradually collapsed, leaving me sitting in a state of complete wonderment, dead tired and very happy, upon my _paillasse_.

“I think I’ll turn in” I said to the neighbouring darkness.

“That’s what I’m doing” B.’s voice said.

“By God” I said, “this is the finest place I’ve ever been in my life.”

“It’s the finest place in the world” said B.’s voice.

“Thank Heaven, we’re out of A.’s way and the —— _Section Sanitaire_,” I grunted as I placed my boots where a pillow might have been imagined.

“Amen” B.’s voice said.

“If you put your shoes un-der your mat-tress” Monsieur Auguste’s voice said, “you’ll sleep well.”

I thanked him for the suggestion, and did so. I reclined in an ecstasy of happiness and weariness. There could be nothing better than this. To sleep.

“Got a _gottverdummer_ cigarette?” Harree’s voice asked of Fritz.

“No bloody fear,” Fritz’s voice replied coolly.

Snores had already begun in various keys at various distances in various directions. The candle flickered a little; as if darkness and itself were struggling to the death, and darkness were winning.

“I’ll get a chew from John” Harree’s voice said.

Three or four _paillasses_ away, a subdued conversation was proceeding. I found myself listening sleepily.

“_Et puis_,” a voice said, “_je suis reformé…._”