The same is true of sugar: our morning coffee, in addition
to being a water-thin, black, muddy, stinking liquid, contained not the
smallest suggestion of sweetness, whereas the coffee which went to the
officials--and the coffee which B. and I drank in recompense for
"catching water"--had all the sugar you could possibly wish for. The poor
Cook was fined one day as a result of his economies, subsequent to a
united action on the part of the fellow-sufferers. It was a day when a
gent immaculately dressed appeared--after duly warning the Fiend that he
was about to inspect the Fiend's menage--an, I think, public official of
Orne. Judas (at the time _chef de chambre_) supported by the sole and
unique indignation of all his fellow-prisoners save two or three out of
whom Fear had made rabbits or moles, early carried the pail (which by
common agreement not one of us had touched that day) downstairs, along
the hall, and up one flight--where he encountered the Directeur,
Surveillant and Handsome Stranger all amicably and pleasantly conversing.
Judas set the pail down; bowed; and begged, as spokesman for the united
male gender of La Ferte Mace, that the quality of the coffee be examined.
"We won't any of us drink it, begging your pardon, Messieurs," he claims
that he said.
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