I am now describing what my eyes
saw, not what was shown to the inspectors on their rare visits to the
Directeur's little shop for making criminals. I know what these
occasional visitors beheld, because it, too, I have seen with my own
eyes: seen the two _balayeurs_ staggering downstairs with a bed
(consisting of a high iron frame, a huge mattress of delicious thickness,
spotless sheets, warm blankets, and a sort of quilt neatly folded over
all); seen this bed placed by the panting sweepers in the thoroughly
cleaned and otherwise immaculate _cabinot_ at the foot of the stairs and
opposite the kitchen, the well-scrubbed door being left wide open. I saw
this done as I was going to dinner. While the men were upstairs
recovering from _la soupe_, the gentleman-inspectors were invited
downstairs to look at a specimen of the Directeur's kindness--a kindness
which he could not restrain even in the case of those who were guilty of
some terrible wrong. (The little Belgian with the Broken Arm, alias the
Machine-Fixer, missed not a word nor a gesture of all this; and described
the scene to me with an indignation which threatened his sanity.) Then,
while _les hommes_ were in the _cour_ for the afternoon, the sweepers
were rushed to The Enormous Room, which they cleaned to beat the band
with the fear of Hell in them; after which, the Directeur led his amiable
guests leisurely upstairs and showed them the way the men kept their
quarters; kept them without dictation on the part of the officials, so
fond were they of what was to them one and all more than a delightful
temporary residence--was in fact a home.
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