And I realised that it was true--as I had previously only suspected it to
be true--that in finding us unworthy of helping to carry forward the
banner of progress, alias the tricolour, the inimitable and excellent
French government was conferring upon B. and myself--albeit with other
intent--the ultimate compliment.
And the Machine-Fixer, whose opinion of this blond _putain_ grew and
increased and soared with every day of her martyrdom till the
Machine-Fixer's former classification of _les femmes_ exploded and
disappeared entirely--the Machine-Fixer who would have fallen on his
little knees to Lena had she given him a chance, and kissed the hem of
her striped skirt in an ecstasy of adoration--told me that Lena on being
finally released, walked upstairs herself, holding hard to the banister
without a look for anyone, "having eyes as big as tea-cups." He added,
with tears in his own eyes:
"M'sieu' Jean, a woman."
I recall perfectly being in the kitchen one day, hiding from the
eagle-eye of the Black Holster and enjoying a talk on the economic
consequences of war, said talk being delivered by Afrique. As a matter of
fact, I was not in the _cuisine_ proper but in the little room which I
have mentioned previously.
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