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'americain!_"
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'americain._" 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.
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