After which Jean, exhausted with laughter, descended from the chair and
lay down on his bed to read a letter from Lulu (not knowing a syllable of
it). A little later he came rushing up to my bed in the most terrific
state of excitement, the whites of his eyes gleaming, his teeth bared,
his kinky hair fairly standing on end, and cried:
"You--me, me--you? _Pas bon._ You--you, me--me: _bon_. Me--me, you--you!"
and went away capering and shouting with laughter, dancing with great
grace and as great agility and with an imaginary partner the entire
length of the room.
There was another game--a pure child's game--which Jean played. It was
the name game. He amused himself for hours together by lying on his
_paillasse_ tilting his head back, rolling up his eyes, and crying in a
high quavering voice--"JAW-neeeeee." After a repetition or two of his own
name in English, he would demand sharply "Who is calling me? Mexique?
_Es-ce que tu m'appelle_, Mexique?" and if Mexique happened to be asleep,
Jean would rush over and cry in his ear, shaking him thoroughly--"_Es-ce
tu m'appelle, toi?_" Or it might be Barbu, or Pete The Hollander, or B.
or myself, of whom he sternly asked the question--which was always
followed by quantities of laughter on Jean's part.
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