I cannot honestly say that the
discovery of this proximity of ourselves to our respective fates wholly
pleased us; yet we were so weary of waiting that it certainly did not
wholly terrify us. All in all, I think I have never been so utterly
un-at-ease as while waiting for the axe to fall, metaphorically speaking,
upon our squawking heads.
We were still conversing with the Belgian girl when a man came out of the
door unsteadily, looking as if he had submitted to several strenuous
fittings of a wooden leg upon a stump not quite healed. The Wooden Hand,
nodding at B., remarked hurriedly in a low voice:
"_Allez!_"
And B. (smiling at La Belge and at me) entered. He was followed by The
Wooden Hand, as I suppose for greater security.
The next twenty minutes, or whatever it was, were by far the most
nerve-racking which I had as yet experienced. La Belge said to me:
"_Il est gentil, votre ami,_"
and I agreed. And my blood was bombarding the roots of my toes and the
summits of my hair.
After (I need not say) two or three million aeons, B. emerged. I had not
time to exchange a look with him--let alone a word--for the Wooden Hand
said from the doorway:
"_Allez, l'autre americain,_"
and I entered in more confusion than can easily be imagined; entered the
torture chamber, entered the inquisition, entered the tentacles of that
sly and beaming polyp, _le gouvernement francais_.
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