He hinted darkly of trouble
in store for _le noir_; and received the commiserations of everyone
present except Mexique, The Zulu, B. and me.
The Zulu, I remember, pointed to his own nose (which was not
unimportant), then to Jean, and made a _moue_ of excruciating anguish,
and winked audibly.
Jean's spirit was broken. The well-nigh unanimous verdict against him had
convinced his minutely sensitive soul that it had done wrong. He lay
quietly, and would say nothing to anyone.
Some time after the soup, about eight o'clock, the Fighting Sheeney and
The Trick Raincoat suddenly set upon Jean le Negre a propos of nothing;
and began pommelling him cruelly. The conscience-stricken pillar of
beautiful muscle--who could have easily killed both his assailants at one
blow--not only offered no reciprocatory violence but refused even to
defend himself. Unresistingly, wincing with pain, his arms mechanically
raised and his head bent, he was battered frightfully to the window by
his bed, thence into the corner (upsetting the stool in the _pissoir_),
thence along the wall to the door. As the punishment increased he cried
out like a child: "_Laissez-moi tranquille!_"--again and again; and in
his voice the insane element gained rapidly.
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