My notebooks, one
in particular, are covered with conjugations which bear witness to
Mexique's ineffable good-nature. I also have a somewhat superficial
portrait of his back sitting on a bench by the stove. I wish I had
another of Mexique out in _le jardin_ with a man who worked there who was
a Spaniard, and whom the Surveillant had considerately allowed Mexique to
assist; with the perfectly correct idea that it would be pleasant for
Mexique to talk to someone who could speak Spanish--if not as well as he,
Mexique, could, at least passably well. As it is, I must be content to
see my very good friend sitting with his hands in his pockets by the
stove with Bill the Hollander beside him. And I hope it was not many days
after my departure that Mexique went free. Somehow I feel that he went
free ... and if I am right, I will only say about Mexique's freedom what
I have heard him slowly and placidly say many times concerning not only
the troubles which were common property to us all but his own peculiar
troubles as well.
"That's fine."
Here let me introduce the Guard Champetre, whose name I have already
taken more or less in vain. A little, sharp, hungry-looking person who,
subsequent to being a member of a rural police force (of which membership
he seemed rather proud), had served his _patrie_--otherwise known as _La
Belgique_--in the capacity of motorcyclist.
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