...
Afrique's is an alert kind of mind, which has been and seen and observed
and penetrated and known--a bit there, somewhat here, chiefly everywhere.
Its specialty being politics, in which case Afrique has had the
inestimable advantage of observing without being observed--until La
Ferte; whereupon Afrique goes on uninterruptedly observing, recognising
that a significant angle of observation has been presented to him gratis.
_Les journaux_ and politics in general are topics upon which Afrique can
say more, without the slightest fatigue, than a book as big as my two
thumbs.
"Why yes, they got water, and then I gave them coffee," Monsieur, or more
properly Mynheer _le chef_, is expostulating; the _planton_ is stupidly
protesting that we are supposed to be upstairs; Afrique is busily
stirring a huge black pot, winking gravely at us and singing softly
"_Le bon Dieu, Soul comme un cochon...._"
VI
APOLLYON
The inhabitants of The Enormous Room whose portraits I have attempted in
the preceding chapter, were, with one or two exceptions, inhabiting at
the time of my arrival. Now the thing which above all things made death
worth living and life worth dying at La Ferte Mace was the kinetic aspect
of that institution; the arrivals, singly or in groups, of _nouveaux_ of
sundry nationalities whereby our otherwise more or less simple existence
was happily complicated, our putrescent placidity shaken by a fortunate
violence.
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