I remember gazing stupidly at Jean's chocolate-coloured nakedness as it
strode to the tub, a rippling texture of muscular miracle. _Tout le
monde_ had _baigne_ (including The Zulu, who tried to escape at the last
minute and was nabbed by the _planton_ whose business it was to count
heads and see that none escaped the ordeal) and now _tout le monde_ was
shivering all together in the anteroom, begging to be allowed to go
upstairs and get into bed--when La Baigneur, Monsieur Richard's strenuous
successor that is, set up a hue and cry that one towel was lacking. The
Fencer was sent for. He entered; heard the case; and made a speech. If
the guilty party would immediately return the stolen towel, he, The
Fencer, would guarantee that party pardon; if not, everyone present
should be searched, and the man on whose person the serviette was found
_va attraper quinze jours de cabinot_. This eloquence yielding no
results, The Fencer exorted the culprit to act like a man and render to
Caesar what is Caesar's. Nothing happened. Everyone was told to get in
single file and make ready to pass out the door, one after one we were
searched; but so general was the curiosity that as fast as they were
inspected the erstwhile bed-enthusiasts, myself included, gathered on the
side-lines to watch their fellows instead of availing themselves of the
opportunity to go upstairs.
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