It was that the incident had absolutely removed that inhibition
which (from the day when Jean _le noir_ became Jean _le geant_) had held
the child, which was Jean's soul and destiny, prisoner. From that instant
till the day I left him he was the old Jean--joking, fibbing, laughing,
and always playing--Jean L'Enfant.
And I think of Jean le Negre ... you are something to dream over, Jean;
summer and winter (birds and darkness) you go walking into my head; you
are a sudden and chocolate-coloured thing, in your hands you have a habit
of holding six or eight _plantons_ (which you are about to throw away)
and the flesh of your body is like the flesh of a very deep cigar. Which
I am still and always quietly smoking: always and still I am inhaling its
very fragrant and remarkable muscles. But I doubt if ever I am quite
through with you, if ever I will toss you out of my heart into the
sawdust of forgetfulness. Kid, Boy, I'd like to tell you: _la guerre est
finie_.
O yes, Jean: I do not forget, I remember Plenty; the snow's coming, the
snow will throw again a very big and gentle shadow into The Enormous Room
and into the eyes of you and me walking always and wonderfully up and
down....
--Boy, Kid, Nigger, with the strutting muscles--take me up into your mind
once or twice before I die (you know why: just because the eyes of me and
you will be full of dirt some day).
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