Satisfied, he went on; his good hand grasping the pipe between its index
and second fingers and resting on one little knee, his legs crossed, his
small body hunched forward, wee unshaven face close to mine--went on in
the confidential tone of one who relates an unbelievable miracle to a
couple of intimate friends:
"Monsieur Jean, I followed. They got him to the _cabinot_. The door stood
open. At this moment _les femmes descendaient_, it was their _corvee
d'eau, vous savez._ He saw them, _le noir_. One of them cried from the
stairs, Is a Frenchman stronger than you, Jean? The _plantons_ were
standing around him, the Surveillant was behind. He took the nearest
_planton_, and tossed him down the corridor so that he struck against the
door at the end of it. He picked up two more, one in each arm, and threw
them away. They fell on top of the first. The last tried to take hold of
Jean, and so Jean took him by the neck"--(the _balayeur_ strangled
himself for our benefit)--"and that _planton_ knocked down the other
three, who had got on their feet by this time. You should have seen the
Surveillant. He had run away and was saying, 'Capture him, capture him.'
The _plantons_ rushed Jean, all four of them.
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