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 etes 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.
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