I breathed freely once more. All my nervousness was gone. The attempt of the three gentlemen sitting before me to endow my friend and myself with different fates had irrevocably failed. Monsieur le Ministre conducted me into room number 1 again. Do you prefer English or French? Because the French paquet bleu are stronger and because he expected me to say English, I said "French.
With a sorrowful expression Noyon went to a sort of bookcase and took down a blue packet. I think I asked for matches, or else he had given back the few which he found on my person. Noyon, t-d and the grand criminal alias I now descended solemnly to the F. The more and more mystified conducteur conveyed us a short distance to what was obviously a prison-yard.
Monsieur le Ministre watched me descend my voluminous baggage. This was carefully examined by Monsieur at the bureau , of the prison. Monsieur made me turn everything topsy-turvy and inside out.
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Monsieur expressed great surprise at a huge shell: Did Monsieur suppose I was caught in the act of blowing up the French Government, or what exactly? Hardly; of poilus, children, and other ruins. Monsieur examined the drawings and found that I had spoken the truth. Monsieur puts all these trifles into a small bag, with which I had been furnished in addition to the huge duffle-bag by the generous Red Cross.
Labels them in French: We had but a short distance to go; several steps in fact. I remember we turned a corner and somehow got sight of a sort of square near the prison. A military band was executing itself to the stolid delight of some handfuls of ragged civiles. My new captor paused a moment; perhaps his patriotic soul was stirred. Then we traversed an alley with locked doors on both sides, and stopped in front of the last door on the right. A key opened it. The music could still be distinctly heard. The opened door showed a room, about sixteen feet short and four feet narrow, with a heap of straw in the further end.
My spirits had been steadily recovering from the banality of their examination; and it was with a genuine and never-to-be-forgotten thrill that I remarked, as I crossed what might have been the threshold: A hideous crash nipped the last word. I had supposed the whole prison to have been utterly destroyed by earthquake, but it was only my door closing An uncontrollable joy gutted me after three months of humiliation, of being bossed and herded and bullied and insulted.
I was myself and my own master. In this delirium of relief hardly noticing what I did I inspected the pile of straw, decided against it, set up my bed, disposed the roll on it, and began to examine my cell. I have mentioned the length and breadth. The cell was ridiculously high; perhaps ten feet. The end with the door in it was peculiar. The door was not placed in the middle of this end, but at one side, allowing for a huge iron can waist-high which stood in the other corner. Over the door and across the end, a grating extended. A slit of sky was always visible. Whistling joyously to myself, I took three steps which brought me to the door-end.
The door was massively made, all of iron or steel I should think. The can excited my curiosity. I looked over the edge of it. At the bottom reposefully lay a new human turd. I have a sneaking mania for wood-cuts, particularly when used to illustrate the indispensable psychological crisis of some outworn romance. There is in my possession at this minute a masterful depiction of a tall, bearded, horrified man who, clad in an anonymous rig of goat skins, with a fantastic umbrella clasped weakly in one huge paw, bends to examine an indication of humanity in the somewhat cubist wilderness whereof he had fancied himself the owner It was then that I noticed the walls.
Arm-high they were covered with designs, mottos, pictures. The drawing had all been done in pencil. I resolved to ask for a pencil at the first opportunity. There had been Germans and Frenchmen imprisoned in this cell. On the right wall, near the door-end, was a long selection from Goethe, laboriously copied.
Near the other end of this wall a satiric landscape took place. The technique of this landscape frightened me. There were houses, men, children. And there were trees. I began to wonder what a tree looks like, and laughed copiously. The left wall was adorned with a yacht, flying a number Then came a bust of a German soldier, very idealized, full of unfear. After this, a masterful crudity--a doughnut-bodied rider, sliding with fearful rapidity down the acute backbone of a totally transparent sausage-shaped horse, who was moving simultaneously in five directions.
The rider had a bored expression as he supported the stiff reins in one fist. His further leg assisted in his flight. He wore a German soldier's cap and was smoking. I made up my mind to copy the horse and rider at once, so soon, that is, as I should have obtained a pencil. Last, I found a drawing surrounded by a scrolled motto.
The drawing was a potted plant with four blossoms. The four blossoms were elaborately dead. Their death was drawn with a fearful care. An obscure deliberation was exposed in the depiction of their drooping petals. The pot tottered very crookedly on a sort of table, as near as I could see. All around ran a funereal scroll. Six years of prison--military degradation. It must have been five o'clock. A vast cluttering of the exterior of the door--by whom? Whang opens the door. Turnkey-creature extending a piece of chocolate with extreme and surly caution.
I say " Merci " and seize chocolate. Klang shuts the door. I am lying on my back, the twilight does mistily bluish miracles through the slit over the whang-klang. I can just see leaves, meaning tree. I had laid a piece of my piece of chocolate on the window-sill. As I lay on my back a little silhouette came along the sill and ate that piece of a piece, taking something like four minutes to do so.
He then looked at me, I then smiled at him, and we parted, each happier than before. A moldly moldering molish voice, suggesting putrifying tracts and orifices, answers with a cob-webbish patience so far beyond despair as to be indescribable: My money is chez le directeur. Please take my money which is chez le directeur and give me anything else. Always asks for things. When supposest thou will he realize that he's never going to get anything? The faces stood in the doorway, looking me down.
The expression of the faces identically turnkeyish, i. Look who's here, who let that in? They did not smile and said: I want to pass the time. I contemplate the bowl which contemplates me. A glaze of greenish grease seals the mystery of its content, I induce two fingers to penetrate the seal. They bring me up a flat sliver of cabbage and a large, hard, thoughtful, solemn, uncooked bean. Suddenly I realize the indisputable grip of nature's humorous hand. Having finished, panting with stink, I tumble on the bed and consider my next move.
One body collapses sufficiently to deposit a hunk of bread and a piece of water. So I took matches, burnt, and with just 60 of them wrote the first stanza of a ballade. To-morrow I will write the second. Day after to-morrow the third. Next day the refrain. I sang a song the "dirty Frenchmen" taught us, mon ami et moi.
The song says Bon soir, Madame de la Lune I did not sing out loud, simply because the moon was like a mademoiselle, and I did not want to offend the moon. Then I lay down, and heard but could not see the silhouette eat something or somebody As I came out, toting bed and bed-roll, I remarked: Himself stooped puffingly to pick up the segregated sack. Then I said, "Where's my cane? A crowd of gendarmes gathered. One didn't take a cane with one to prison I was glad to know where I was bound, and thanked this communicative gentleman ; or criminals weren't allowed canes; or where exactly did I think I was, in the Tuileries?
This haughty inaccuracy produced an astonishing effect, namely, the prestidigitatorial vanishment of the v-f-g. I sat on the curb and began to fill a paper with something which I found in my pockets, certainly not tobacco. Splutter-splutter-fizz-Poop--the v-f-g is back, with my oak-branch in his raised hand, slithering opprobria and mostly crying: It is, is it? What the--," so on. I beamed upon him and thanked him, and explained that a "dirty Frenchman" had given it to me as a souvenir, and that I would now proceed. Twisting the handle in the loop of my sack, and hoisting the vast parcel under my arm, I essayed twice to boost it on my back.
The third time I sweated and staggered to my feet, completely accoutred. Curious looks from a few pedestrians. A driver stops his wagon to watch the spider and his outlandish fly. I chuckled to think how long since I had washed and shaved. Then I nearly fell, staggered on a few steps, and set down the two loads.
Perhaps it was the fault of a strictly vegetarian diet. At any rate, I couldn't move a step farther with my bundles.
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The sun sent the sweat along my nose in tickling waves. My eyes were blind.
Hereupon I suggested that the v-f-g carry part of one of my bundles with me, and received the answer: No gendarme is supposed to carry a prisoner's baggage. I looked at the gendarme. I looked several blocks through him. My lip did something like a sneer.
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My hands did something like fists. At this crisis along comes a little boy. May God bless all males between seven and ten years of age in France! The gendarme offered a suggestion, in these words: The gendarme's eyes were fine. They reminded me of But herein the v-f-g had bust his milk-jug. There is a slit of a pocket made in the uniform of his criminal on the right side, and completely covered by the belt which his criminal always wears.
His criminal had thus outwitted the gumshoe fraternity. The gosse could scarcely balance my smaller parcel, but managed after three rests to get it to the station platform; here I tipped him something like two cents all I had which, with dollar-big eyes, he took and ran. A strongly-built, groomed apache smelling of cologne and onions greeted my v-f-g with that affection which is peculiar to gendarmes.
On me he stared cynically, then sneered frankly. With a little tooty shriek the funny train tottered in. My captors had taken pains to place themselves at the wrong end of the platform. Now they encouraged me to HurryHurryHurry. I managed to get under the load and tottered the length of the train to a car especially reserved. There was one other criminal, a beautifully-smiling, shortish man, with a very fine blanket wrapped in a water-proof oilskin cover.
The engine got under way after several feints; which pleased the Germans so that they sent several scout planes right over the station, train, us et tout. All the French anticraft guns went off together for the sake of sympathy; the guardians of the peace squinted cautiously from their respective windows, and then began a debate on the number of the enemy while their prisoners smiled at each other appreciatively. He is a Belgian. Volunteered at beginning of war. Permission at Paris, overstayed by one day. When he reported to his officer, the latter announced that he was a deserter--I said to him, "It is funny.
It is funny I should have come back, of my own free will, to my company. I should have thought that being a deserter I would have preferred to remain in Paris. They had given me a chunk of war-bread in place of blessing when I left Noyon. I bit into it with renewed might. But the divine man across from me immediately produced a sausage, half of which he laid simply upon my knee. The halving was done with a large keen poilu's knife. The pigs on my either hand had by this time overcome their respective inertias and were chomping cheek-murdering chunks.
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They had quite a layout, a regular picnic-lunch elaborate enough for kings or even presidents. The v-f-g in particular annoyed me by uttering alternate chompings and belchings. All the time he ate he kept his eyes half-shut; and a mist overspread the sensual meadows of his coarse face. His two reddish eyes rolled devouringly toward the blanket in its waterproof roll. They are going to take everything away from you when you get there, you know. I could use it nicely. I have wanted such a piece of rubber for a great while, in order to make me a raincoat.
Here I had an inspiration. I would save the blanket-cover by drawing these brigands' attention to myself. At the same time I would satisfy my inborn taste for the ridiculous. He gave me a pencil. I don't remember where the paper came from. I posed him in a pig-like position, and the picture made him chew his moustache.
The apache thought it very droll. I should do his picture, too, at once. I did my best; though protesting that he was too beautiful for my pencil, which remark he countered by murmuring as he screwed his moustache another notch , "Never mind, you will try. He objected, I recall, to the nose. By this time the divine "deserter" was writhing with joy. He handled his picture sacredly, criticised it with precision and care, finally bestowed it in his inner pocket. It happened that the train stopped and the apache was persuaded to go out and get his prisoner's canteen filled.
Then we drank again. He smiled as he told me he was getting ten years. Three years at solitary confinement was it, and seven working in a gang on the road? That would not be so bad. He wished he was not married, had not a little child. Now the gendarmes began cleaning their beards, brushing their stomachs, spreading their legs, collecting their baggage.
The reddish eyes, little and cruel, woke from the trance of digestion and settled with positive ferocity on their prey. Silently the sensitive, gentle hands of the divine prisoner undid the blanket-cover. Silently the long, tired, well-shaped arms passed it across to the brigand at my left side.
With a grunt of satisfaction the brigand stuffed it in a large pouch, taking pains that it should not show. Silently the divine eyes said to mine: I follow with my numerous affaires. The divine man follows me--the v-f-g him. The blanket-roll containing my large fur-coat got more and more unrolled; finally I could not possibly hold it. Then comes a voice, "allow me if you please, monsieur"--and the sack has disappeared. Blindly and dumbly I stumble on with the roll; and so at length we come into the yard of a little prison; and the divine man bowed under my great sack I never thanked him.
When I turned, they'd taken him away, and the sack stood accusingly at my feet. Through the complete disorder of my numbed mind flicker jabbings of strange tongues. Some high boy's voice is appealing to me in Belgian, Italian, Polish, Spanish and--beautiful English. I lift my eyes. I am standing in a tiny oblong space. A sort of court. All around, two-story wooden barracks. Little crude staircases lead up to doors heavily chained and immensely padlocked. More like ladders than stairs. Curious hewn windows, smaller in proportion than the slits in a doll's house.
Are these faces behind the slits? The doors bulge incessantly under the shock of bodies hurled against them from within. The whole dirty nouveau business about to crumble. A wall with many bars fixed across one minute opening. At the opening a dozen, fifteen, grins. Upon the bars hands, scraggy and bluishly white.
Through the bars stretching of lean arms, incessant stretchings. The grins leap at the window, hands belonging to them catch hold, arms belonging to the hands stretch in my direction In the huge potpourri of misery a central figure clung, shaken but undislodged. Clung like a monkey to central bars. Clung like an angel to a harp. Calling pleasantly in a high boyish voice: I waded suddenly through a group of gendarmes they stood around me watching with a disagreeable curiosity my reaction to this.
Strode fiercely to the window. The angel-monkey received the package of cigarettes politely, disappearing with it into howling darkness. I heard his high boy's voice distributing cigarettes. Then he leaped into sight, poised gracefully against two central bars, saying "Thank you, Jack, good boy" Evidently the head of the house speaking.
A corpulent soldier importantly lead me to my cell. My cell is two doors away from the monkey-angel, on the same side. The high boy-voice, centralized in a torrent-like halo of stretchings, followed my back. The head himself unlocked a lock. I marched coldly in. The fat soldier locked and chained my door. Four feet went away. I felt in my pocket, finding four cigarettes. I am sorry I did not give these also to the monkey--to the angel. Lifted my eyes and saw my own harp. Through the bars I looked into that little and dirty lane whereby I had entered; in which a sentinel, gun on shoulder, and with a huge revolver strapped at his hip, monotonously moved.
On my right was an old wall overwhelmed with moss. A few growths stemmed from its crevices. Their leaves were of a refreshing colour. I felt singularly happy, and carefully throwing myself on the bare planks sang one after another all the French songs which I had picked up in my stay at the ambulance; sang La Madelon, sang AVec avEC DU, and Les Galiots Sont Lourds Dans Sac--concluding with an inspired rendering of La Marseillaise, at which the guard who had several times stopped his round in what I choose to interpret as astonishment grounded arms and swore appreciatively.
Various officials of the jail passed by me and my lusty songs; I cared no whit. Two or three conferred, pointing in my direction, and I sang a little louder for the benefit of their perplexity. Finally out of voice I stopped. As I lay on my back luxuriously, I saw through the bars of my twice padlocked door a boy and a girl about ten years old. I saw them climb on the wall and play together, obliviously and exquisitely, in the darkening air.
I watched them for many minutes; till the last moment of light failed; till they and the wall itself dissolved in a common mystery, leaving only the bored silhouette of the soldier moving imperceptibly and wearily against a still more gloomy piece of autumn sky. At last I knew that I was very thirsty; and leaping up began to clamor at my bars.
One of these gentry watched the water and me, while the other wrestled with the padlock. The door being minutely opened, one guard and the water painfully entered. The other guard remained at the door, gun in readiness. The water was set down, and the enterer assumed a perpendicular position which I thought merited recognition; accordingly I said " Merci " politely, without getting up from the planks. Immediately he began to deliver a sharp lecture on the probability of my using the tin cup to saw my way out; and commended haste in no doubtful terms.
I smiled, asked pardon for my inherent stupidity which speech seemed to anger him and guzzled the so-called water without looking at it, having learned something from Noyon. With a long and dangerous look at their prisoner, the gentlemen of the guard withdrew, using inconceivable caution in the relocking of the door. After as I judged four minutes of slumber, I was awakened by at least six men standing over me.
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The darkness was intense, it was extraordinarily cold. I glared at them and tried to understand what new crime I had committed. One of the six was repeating: They formed a circle around me; and together we marched a few steps to a sort of storeroom, where my great sack, small sack, and overcoat were handed to me. A rather agreeably voiced guard then handed me a half-cake of chocolate, saying but with a tolerable grimness: Two new guards--or rather gendarmes --were now officially put in charge of my person; and the three of us passed down the lane, much to the interest of the sentinel, to whom I bade a vivid and unreturned adieu.
I can see him perfectly as he stares stupidly at us, a queer shape in the gloom, before turning on his heel. Toward the very station whereat some hours since I had disembarked with the Belgian deserter and my former escorts, we moved. I was stiff with cold and only half awake, but peculiarly thrilled. The gendarmes on either side moved grimly, without speaking; or returning monosyllables to my few questions.
Yes, we were to take the train. I was going somewhere, then? After a few minutes we reached the station, which I failed to recognize. The yellow flares of lamps, huge and formless in the night mist, some figures moving to and fro on a little platform, a rustle of conversation: Every figure was wrapped with its individual ghostliness; a number of ghosts each out on his own promenade, yet each for some reason selecting this unearthly patch of the world, this putrescent and uneasy gloom.
Even my guards talked in whispers. I leaned dizzily against the wall nearest me having plumped down my baggage and stared into the darkness at my elbow, filled with talking shadows. I recognized officiers anglais wandering helplessly up and down, supported with their sticks; French lieutenants talking to each other here and there; the extraordinary sense-bereft station master at a distance looking like a cross between a jumping-jack and a goblin; knots of permissionaires cursing wearily or joking hopelessly with one another or stalking back and forth with imprecatory gesticulations.
I know his sister. By threes and fives they assaulted the goblin who wailed and shook his withered fist in their faces. There was no train. It had been taken away by the French Government. Of course you'll all of you be deserters, but is it my fault? One of these fine people from uncivilized, ignorant, unwarlike Algeria was drunk and knew it, as did two of his very fine friends who announced that as there was no train he should have a good sleep at a farmhouse hard by, which farmhouse one of them claimed to espy through the impenetrable night.
The drunk was accordingly escorted into the dark, his friends' abrupt steps correcting his own large slovenly procedure out of earshot Some of the Black People sat down near me and smoked. Their enormous faces, wads of vital darkness, swooned with fatigue. Their vast gentle hands lay noisily about their knees. The departed gendarme returned, with a bump, out of the mist.
The train for Paris would arrive de suite. We were just in time, our movement had so far been very creditable. It was cold, eh? Then with the ghastly miniature roar of an insane toy the train for Paris came fumbling into the station We boarded it, due caution being taken that I should not escape. As a matter of fact I held up the would-be passengers for nearly a minute by my unaided attempts to boost my uncouth baggage aboard. Then my captors and I blundered heavily into a compartment in which an Englishman and two French women were seated.
My gendarmes established themselves on either side of the door, a process which woke up the Anglo-Saxon and caused a brief gap in the low talk of the women. The latter has already uncomprehendingly subsided into sleep. The former a woman of about thirty is talking pleasantly to her friend, whom I face. She must have been very pretty before she put on the black.
Her friend is also a veuve. How pleasantly they talk, of la guerre , of Paris, of the bad service; talk in agreeably modulated voices, leaning a little forward to each other, not wishing to disturb the dolt at my right. The train tears slowly on. Both the gendarmes are asleep, one with his hand automatically grasping the handle of the door. I try all sorts of positions, for I find myself very tired. The best is to put my cane between my legs and rest my chin on it; but even that is uncomfortable, for the Englishman has writhed all over me by this time and is snoring creditably.
I look him over; an Etonian, as I guess. Except for the position--well, c'est la guerre. The women are speaking softly. My sister wrote me. It is light outside. One sees the world. In the compartment it is hot. The gendarmes smell worst. I know how I smell. Lest I should think they had dozed off. Some permissionaires cried "Paris. Paris, where one forgets, Paris, which is Pleasure, Paris, in whom our souls live, Paris, the beautiful, Paris at last.
The Englishman woke up and said heavily to me: My guards hurried me through the station. One of them I saw for the first time was older than the other, and rather handsome with his Van Dyck blackness of curly beard. He said that it was too early for the metro , it was closed. We should take a car. It would bring us to the other station from which our next train left.
We emerged from the station and its crowds of crazy men. We boarded a car marked something. The conductress, a strong, pink-cheeked, rather beautiful girl in black, pulled my baggage in for me with a gesture which filled all of me with joy. I thanked her, and she smiled at me. The car moved along through the morning. We descended from it. We started off on foot. The car was not the right car.
We would have to walk to the station. I was faint and almost dead from weariness and I stopped when my overcoat had fallen from my benumbed arm for the second time: I stopped dead, and said: Moreover, I was past elucidation. The older stroked his beard. In that case we will not walk to the Gare, we will in fact ride.
Several empty cabs had gone by during the peroration of the law, and no more seemed to offer themselves. After some minutes, however, one appeared and was duly hailed. Nervously he was shy in the big city the older asked if the driver knew where the Gare was. And when he was told--"Of course, I know, why not? So we drove through the streets in the freshness of the full morning, the streets full of a few divine people who stared at me and nudged one another, the streets of Paris We arrived at the Gare, and I recognized it vaguely. We dismounted, and the tremendous transaction of the fare was apparently very creditably accomplished by the older.
The cocher gave me a look and remarked whatever it is Paris drivers remark to Paris cab horses, pulling dully at the reins. We entered the station and I collapsed comfortably on a bench; the younger, seating himself with enormous pomposity at my side, adjusted his tunic with a purely feminine gesture expressive at once of pride and nervousness. Gradually my vision gained in focus. The station has a good many people in it. The number increases momently.
A great many are girls. I am in a new world--a world of chic femininity. They hold themselves differently. They have even a little bold color here and there on skirt or blouse or hat. They are not talking about La Guerre. They appear very beautiful, these Parisiennes. And simultaneously with my appreciation of the crisp persons about me comes the hitherto unacknowledged appreciation of my uncouthness. My chin tells my hand of a good quarter inch of beard, every hair of it stiff with dirt. I can feel the dirt-pools under my eyes. My hands are rough with dirt.
My uniform is smeared and creased in a hundred thousand directions. My puttees and shoes are prehistoric in appearance My first request was permission to visit the vespasienne. The younger didn't wish to assume any unnecessary responsibilities; I should wait till the older returned. There he was now.
I might ask him. The older benignly granted my petition, nodding significantly to his fellow-guard, by whom I was accordingly escorted to my destination and subsequently back to my bench. When we got back the gendarmes held a consultation of terrific importance; in substance, the train which should be leaving at that moment six something did not run to-day.
We should therefore wait for the next train, which leaves at twelve-something-else. Then the older surveyed me and said almost kindly: Of all the very beautiful women whom I had seen the most very beautiful was the large and circular lady who sold a cup of perfectly hot and genuine coffee for two cents, just on the brink of the station, chatting cheerfully with her many customers.
Of all the drinks I ever drank, hers was the most sacredly delicious. She wore, I remember, a tight black dress in which enormous and benignant breasts bulged and sank continuously. I lingered over my tiny cup, watching her swift big hands, her round nodding face, her large sudden smile. I drank two coffees, and insisted that my money should pay for our drinks. Of all the treating which I shall ever do, the treating of my captor will stand unique in pleasure.
Even he half appreciated the sense of humor involved; though his dignity did not permit a visible acknowledgment thereof. Having thus consummated breakfast, my guardian suggested a walk. I felt I had the strength of ten because the coffee was pure. Moreover it would be a novelty to me promener sans lodd pounds of baggage. As we walked easily and leisurely the by this time well peopled streets of the vicinity, my guard indulged himself in pleasant conversation.
Did I know Paris much? He knew it all. But he had not been in Paris for several eight was it? It was a fine place, a large city to be sure. I had spent a month in Paris while waiting for my uniform and my assignment to a section sanitaire? And my friend was with me? A perfectly typical runt of a Paris bull eyed us. The older saluted him with infinite respect, the respect of a shabby rube deacon for a well-dressed burglar. They exchanged a few well-chosen words, in French of course.
The latter contented himself with "Ha-aaa"--plus a look at me which was meant to wipe me off the earth's face I pretended to be studying the morning meanwhile. Then we moved on, followed by ferocious stares from the Paris bull. Evidently I was getting to be more of a criminal every minute; I should probably be shot to-morrow, not as I had assumed erroneously the day after. I drank the morning with renewed vigor, thanking heaven for the coffee, Paris; and feeling complete confidence in myself. I should make a great speech in Midi French. I should say to the firing squad: Moi, je connais la soeur du conducteur.
They would ask me when I preferred to die. I should reply, "Pardon me, you wish to ask me when I prefer to become immortal? It's all the same to me, because there isn't any more time--the French Government forbids it. My laughter surprised the older considerably.
He would have been more astonished had I yielded to the well-nigh irrepressible inclination, which at the moment suffused me, to clap him heartily upon the back. We had walked for a half hour or more. My guide and protector now inquired of a workingman the location of the boucheries? Sure enough, not a block away. It was eight years all right. The older bought a great many things in the next five minutes: A bourgeoise with an unagreeable face and suspicion of me written in headlines all over her mouth served us with quick hard laconicisms of movement.
I hated her and consequently refused my captor's advice to buy a little of everything on the ground that it would be a long time till the next meal , contenting myself with a cake of chocolate--rather bad chocolate, but nothing to what I was due to eat during the next three months. Then we retraced our steps, arriving at the station after several mistakes and inquiries, to find the younger faithfully keeping guard over my two sacs and overcoat.
The older and I sat down, and the younger took his turn at promenading. I got up to buy a Fantasio at the stand ten steps away, and the older jumped up and escorted me to and from it. I think I asked him what he would read? So we waited, eyed by everyone in the Gare, laughed at by the officers and their marraines , pointed at by sinewy dames and decrepit bonhommes --the centre of amusement for the whole station.
In spite of my reading I felt distinctly uncomfortable. Would it never be Twelve? Here comes the younger, neat as a pin, looking fairly sterilized. He sits down on my left. Watches are ostentatiously consulted. I sling myself under my bags. Curling the tips of his mustachios, he replied, "Mah-say. I was happy once more. I had always wanted to go to that great port of the Mediterranean, where one has new colors and strange customs, and where the people sing when they talk. But how extraordinary to have come to Paris--and what a trip lay before us.
I was much muddled about the whole thing. Probably I was to be deported. But why from Marseilles? Where was Marseilles anyway? I was probably all wrong about its location. Who cared, after all? At least we were leaving the pointings and the sneers and the half-suppressed titters Two fat and respectable bonhommes , the two gendarmes , and I, made up one compartment. The former talked an animated stream, the guards and I were on the whole silent.
I watched the liquidating landscape and dozed happily. The gendarmes dozed, one at each door. The train rushed lazily across the earth, between farmhouses, into fields, along woods I was awakened by a noise of eating. My protectors, knife in hand, were consuming their meat and bread, occasionally tilting their bidons on high and absorbing the thin streams which spurted therefrom. I tried a little chocolate. The bonhommes were already busy with their repast. The older gendarme watched me chewing away at the chocolate, then commanded, "Take some bread. He had relaxed amazingly: I seized the offered hunk, and chewed vigorously on it.
The older appeared pleased with my appetite; his face softened still more, as he remarked: I drank as much as I dared, and thanked him: The train stopped; and the younger sprang out, carrying the empty canteens of himself and his comrade. When they and he returned, I enjoyed another cup. From that moment till we reached our destination at about eight o'clock the older and I got on extraordinarily well. When the gentlemen descended at their station he waxed almost familiar.
I was in excellent spirits; rather drunk; extremely tired. Now that the two guardians and myself were alone in the compartment, the curiosity which had hitherto been stifled by etiquette and pride of capture came rapidly to light. Why was I here, anyway?
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I seemed well enough to them. The older in particular was immensely relieved. The French government didn't keep people like me in prison. I think I told the younger that the average height of buildings in America was nine hundred metres. He stared and shook his head doubtfully, but I convinced him in the end. Then in my turn I asked questions, the first being: Where was my friend? They had been told that he was very dangerous. How long had I studied French? I spoke very well. Was it hard to learn English? Finally watches were consulted, tunics buttoned, hats donned.
I was told in a gruff voice to prepare myself; that we were approaching the end of our journey. Looking at the erstwhile participants in conversation, I scarcely knew them. They had put on with their caps a positive ferocity of bearing. I began to think that I had dreamed the incidents of the preceding hours. The older sought out the station master, who having nothing to do was taking a siesta in a miniature waiting-room. The general countenance of the place was exceedingly depressing; but I attempted to keep up my spirits with the reflection that after all all this was but a junction, and that from here we were to take a train for Marseilles herself.
The name of the station, Briouse, I found somewhat dreary. And now the older returned with the news that our train wasn't running today, and that the next train didn't arrive till early morning and should we walk to Marseilles? I could check my great sac and overcoat. The small sac I should carry along--it was only a step, after all. With a glance at the desolation of Briouse I agreed to the stroll. It was a fine night for a little promenade; not too cool, and with a promise of a moon stuck into the sky. The sac and coat were accordingly checked by the older; the station master glanced at me and haughtily grunted having learned that I was an American ; and my protectors and I set out.
Thanks to their forethought and my obedience the rescue did not take place, nor did our party excite even the curiosity of the scarce and soggy inhabitants of the unlovely town of Briouse. The highroad won, all of us relaxed considerably. The sac full of suspicious letters which I bore on my shoulder was not so light as I had thought, but the kick of the Briouse pinard thrust me forward at a good clip.
The road was absolutely deserted; the night hung loosely around it, here and there tattered by attempting moonbeams. I was somewhat sorry to find the way hilly, and in places bad underfoot; yet the unknown adventure lying before me, and the delicious silence of the night in which our words rattled queerly like tin soldiers in a plush-lined box boosted me into a condition of mysterious happiness. We talked, the older and I, of strange subjects. As I suspected, he had been not always a gendarme. He had seen service among the Arabs. He had always liked languages and had picked up Arabian with great ease--of this he was very proud.
For instance--the Arabian way of saying "Give me to eat" was this; when you wanted wine you said so and so; "Nice day" was something else. He thought I could pick it up inasmuch as I had done so creditably with French. He was absolutely certain that English was much easier to learn than French, and would not be moved. Now what was the American language like? I explained that it was a sort of Argot-English.
When I gave him some phrases he was astonished--"It sounds like English! I tried hard to get his intonation of the Arabian, and he helped me on the difficult sounds. America must be a strange place, he thought After two hours walking he called a halt, bidding us rest. We all lay flat on the grass by the roadside. The moon was still battling with clouds. The darkness of the fields on either side was total. I crawled on hands and knees to the sound of silver-trickling water and found a little spring-fed stream.
Prone, weight on elbows, I drank heavily of its perfect blackness. It was icy, talkative, minutely alive. The older presently gave a perfunctory " alors "; we got up; I hoisted my suspicious utterances upon my shoulder, which recognized the renewal of hostilities with a neuralgic throb. You may personalize the entrance to your apartment, make your dining room the soul of your home, or create a kitchen space that moves with the efficiency of a four-star restaurant, but more important, Home Sweet Maison shows that anyone, with any kind of living space, can create a sanctuary; a home filled with warmth and self-expression, better suited to living a rich, full, connected life.
Through addresses, carefully selected for their singularity—unusual museums, timeless brasseries, cool bistros, local markets, soul-filled shops, irresistible pastries, and romantic gardens—urban explorers will find a thousand reasons to walk the streets of Paris again and again, always discovering something new. Sac au dos, livre en main. David Giotto has problems — serious ones. He has problems with his extraordinary enemies — and friends. Here is the selection for the week of August 2nd: Alors nous veillons sur nos vocables, nous ne les abandonnons pas sur les palissades, nous ne les jetons pas aux oiseaux de proie, nous ne les dissipons pas dans les salons ou les lupanars.
Here is the selection for the week of July 26th: Here is the selection for the week of July 19th: Enfin, Emmy va pouvoir entrer dans le vif du sujet, partir sur le front, se faire un nom au fil de la plume! Here is the selection for the week of July 12th: Parmi ces milliers de citations: Francis Scott Fitzgerald fut un nouvelliste hors pair. Here is the selection for the week of July 5th: The biggest and most beloved names in English literature have all been here, and you can still see or visit their stomping grounds and favorite places.
Moving through time and genre, from Spencer and Shakespeare to Amis and Barnes, from tragedy and romance to chick-lit and science fiction, Literary London is a snappy and informative guide, showing just why—as another famous local writer put it—he who is tired of London is tired of life. Pourquoi aller au lit? Parce que tout le monde le fait.
Here is the selection for the week of June 28th: The indispensable guide to recognize and taste the best of French cheese. Le perfect guide and souvenir for foreign tourists in France. In English or French. Here is the selection for the week of June 21st: Discover the history of the Resistance or that of the Arabic world.. Africa, cinema, Egypt, history, impressionism, Middle Ages, music, ancient and contemporary art: The best practical illustrated guide dedicated to all visitors eager to discover the treasures of the French Capital. Parigramme Order Paris Museums on Amazon.
Packed with amusing anecdotes and true stories about the characters and places of the region. A must for anybody even thinking about crossing the Channel for the good life in rural France! Every summer thousands of Brits and other Europeans head to the south west of France for bliss, beauty and freedom. His project was doomed apparently — he was constantly told by industry sages that nothing goes on there out of season.
But he soon discovered that the strange characters, ambitious local politicians, vain sportsmen and yes, badly-behaving foreigners provided more than enough material to keep newsrooms happy. There are the politicians preaching the benefits of Brexit while living a grand life in France. There is also one village in the Pyrenees where many flock believing when the inevitable end of the world comes, it will be the sole place that will survive.
More stories include treasure-seekers convinced of a Catholic Church cover-up, the downright dishonest practices in the truffle markets and other inhabitants of the region who have included ex-terrorists and murderers on the run. Here is the selection for the week of June 14th: Mais Peggy Guggenheim est aussi une femme malheureuse qui se trouve laide et rate ses deux mariages.
Tallandier Order Peggy Guggenheime on Amazon. Editions Atlas Order Metro on Amazon. Usborne Order Drapeaux on Amazon. In fact the whole book is one long road trip. His collection of anecdotes, sometimes nearly burlesque, centered around driving in France but touching on all aspects is a fun and informative read. You feel solidarity with Joe as he adapts and deals with the administration. The differences in car culture here and there, administration, navigation, insurance, signage with all their related anecdotes.
He had plenty of bad luck and a little too much hubris. This story is his inner journey his personal adaptation to France and is a worthwhile read for those arriving in France or those here for many years already. Order French License on Amazon. Here is the selection for the week of June 7th: Here is the selection for the week of May 29th: Order Autour de Paris on Amazon. Here is the selection for the week of May 17th: Joe Start is an American in the Paris area for more than 15 years.
The Chairfather get the humor? Joe is on a first name basis with them, informal, probing and a tad insolent. He meets the eternals head on as an eternal American. Lunch with the late litterati. Gnosh with the gone glitterati. Fascinating facts, scandalous stories and gossip. Posterity has never been so present.
The passed have never been more alive! Order The Chairfather on Amazon. When a little mouse hunts all over Paris for an elusive childhood smell, he discovers what he has been searching for, and something more as well! In English and Polish. A collection of humorous, touching, unputdownable stories set in Paris, The Jazz-Girl, the Piano, and the Dedicated Tuner transports you into a feel-good world of jazz, pianos and the little-known art of piano tuning. An entertaining slice of life, regardless of whether or not you play a musical instrument, this book explores the world of Nina Somerville, an Englishwoman who — while others are going through a mid-life crisis — discovers by complete chance her true calling: In a bid to enjoy that passion to the full, she purchases the piano of her dreams — a Steinway baby grand — leading her to make yet another discovery: Against the backdrop of the Eiffel tower and the Champs-Elysees, from the quest for the perfect sound to an unexpected chance to perform in public, music takes Nina on a journey which is at times improbable and hilarious, but equally moving, not to mention extremely informative.
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Here is the selection for the week of May 10th: Expats leave many loved ones behind. Precious moments in hugging arms now out of reach but not out of mind. How to carry on with this emptiness inside? Chacune a deux enfants, un mari et un chat! Virginie est journaliste, Corinne est graphiste illustratrice. Virginie and Corinne are two expatriate friends living in the United States.
They are both married with two children and a cat, also expatriate! Virginie is a journalist, Corinne is a graphic designer and illustrator. Et comment une telle violence a-t-elle pu surgir dans une ville si paisible? Reading and writing Listening pistes audio disponibles dur le site editions-larousse.
Incertitudes et controverses entourent les origines du tricolore et de ses composantes. These women, who came from different parts of France and diverse background, would later cross the Atlantic to join husbands, settle in various corners of America, suffer culture shock, and adapt to marriage in a foreign land of postwar plenty with varying degrees of success.
Despite these difficulties, like many other immigrants, they got on with it and survived. As the compelling oral histories in this book show, most of them did, in their own way, live the American dream. Ils ne furent pas seulement des aristocrates accomplis. Le courrier du livre. Les femmes sont partout: Order Ma Langue au Chat on Amazon. Mail will not be published Required. We use cookies to provide you with the best possible experience — allowing you to easily access your account and for statistics. By continuing to use our site, you agree to our use of cookies.
Suivre fusacparis sur Twitter. Here is the selection for the week of December 13th: Rizzoli Here is the selection for the week of December 6th: Christina Baker Kline Publisher: Belfond Here is the selection for the week of November 29th: Of all of the legendary figures who thrived in midth-century Paris—a cohort that includes Victor Hugo, Baudelaire, Gustave Courbet, and Alexandre Dumas—Nadar was perhaps the most innovative, the most restless, the most modern. The first great portrait photographer, a pioneering balloonist, the first person to take an aerial photograph, and the prime mover behind the first airmail service, Nadar was one of the original celebrity artist-entrepreneurs.
A kind of 19th-century Andy Warhol, he knew everyone worth knowing and photographed them all, conferring on posterity psychologically compelling portraits of Manet, Sarah Bernhardt, Delacroix, Daumier and countless others—a priceless panorama of Parisian celebrity. With his daring exploits aboard his humongous balloon including a catastrophic crash that made headlines around the world , he gave his friend Jules Verne the model for one of his most dynamic heroes.