Of all the fine people in La Ferte, Monsieur Jean ("_le noir_" as he was
entitled by his enemies) swaggers in my memory as the finest.
Jean's first act was to complete the distribution (begun, he announced,
among the _plantons_ who had escorted him upstairs) of two pockets full
of Cubebs. Right and left he gave them up to the last, remarking
carelessly, "_J'ne veux, moi._"
_Apres la soupe_ (which occurred a few minutes after _le noir's_ entry)
B. and I and the greater number of prisoners descended to the _cour_ for
our afternoon promenade. The cook spotted us immediately and desired us
to "catch water"; which we did, three cartfuls of it, earning our usual
_cafe sucre_. On quitting the kitchen after this delicious repast (which
as usual mitigated somewhat the effects of the swill that was our
official nutriment) we entered the _cour_. And we noticed at once a
well-made figure standing conspicuously by itself, and poring with
extraordinary intentness over the pages of a London Daily Mail which it
was holding upside-down. The reader was culling choice bits of news of a
highly sensational nature, and exclaiming from time to time: "You don't
say! Look, the King of England is sick. Some news!...
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