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 diverse 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. …”
V
A Group of Portraits
With the reader’s permission I beg, at this point of my narrative, to indulge in one or two extrinsic observations.
In the preceding pages I have described my Pilgrim’s Progress from the Slough of Despond, commonly known as Section Sanitaire Vingt-et-Un (then located at Germaine) through the mysteries of Noyon, Gré and Paris to the Porte de Triage de La Ferté Macé, Orne. With the end of my first day as a certified inhabitant of the latter institution a definite progression is brought to a close. Beginning with my second day at La Ferté a new period opens. This period extends to the moment of my departure and includes the discovery of The Delectable Mountains, two of which—The Wanderer and I shall not say the other—have already been sighted. It is like a vast grey box in which are laid helter-skelter a great many toys, each of which is itself completely significant apart from the always unchanging temporal dimension which merely contains it along with the rest. I make this point clear for the
