It was dark.
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.
My _cellule_ was cool, and I fell asleep easily.
(Thinking of Paris.)
... Awakened by a conversation whose vibrations I clearly felt through
the left wall:
Turnkey-creature: "What?"
A moldly moldering molish voice, suggesting putrifying tracts and
orifices, answers with a cob-webbish patience so far beyond despair as to
be indescribable: "_La soupe_."
"Well, the soup, I just gave it to you, Monsieur Savy."
"Must have a little something else. My money is _chez le directeur_.
Please take my money which is _chez le directeur_ and give me anything
else."
"All right, the next time I come to see you to-day I'll bring you a
salad, a nice salad, Monsieur."
"Thank you, Monsieur," the voice moldered.
Klang!!--and says the turnkey-creature to somebody else; while turning
the lock of Monsieur Savy's door; taking pains to raise his voice so that
Monsieur Savy will not miss a single word through the slit over Monsieur
Savy's whang-klang:
"That old fool! Always asks for things.
Pages:
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51