_Nom de Dieu_, I thought vaguely. Am I or am I not completely asleep? And
the man in the shafts craned his neck in stupid amazement, and the
_planton_ twirled his moustache and assumed that intrepid look which only
a _planton_ (or a _gendarme_) perfectly knows how to assume in the
presence of female beauty.
That night The Wanderer was absent from _la soupe_, having been called by
Apollyon to the latter's office upon a matter of superior import.
Everyone was abuzz with the news. The gypsy's wife and three children,
one a baby at the breast, were outside demanding to be made prisoners.
Would the Directeur allow it? They had been told a number of times by
_plantons_ to go away, as they sat patiently waiting to be admitted to
captivity. No threats, pleas nor arguments had availed. The wife said she
was tired of living without her husband--roars of laughter from all the
Belgians and most of the Hollanders, I regret to say Pete included--and
wanted merely and simply to share his confinement. Moreover, she said,
without him she was unable to support his children! and it was better
that they should grow up with their father as prisoners than starve to
death without him. She would not be moved. The Black Holster told her he
would use force--she answered nothing.
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