...
As I entered I said, half aloud: The thing is this, to look 'em in the
eyes and keep cool whatever happens, not for the fraction of a moment
forgetting that they are made of _merde_, that they are all of them
composed entirely of _merde_--I don't know how many inquisitors I
expected to see; but I guess I was ready for at least fifteen, among them
President Poincare Lui-meme. I hummed noiselessly:
"_si vous passez par ma vil-le
n'oubliez pas ma maison;
on y mang-e de bonne sou-pe Ton Ton Tay-ne;
faite de merde et les onions, Ton Ton Tayne Ton Ton Ton,_"
remembering the fine _forgeron_ of Chevancourt who used to sing this, or
something very like it, upon a table--entirely for the benefit of _les
deux americains_, who would subsequently render "Eats uh lonje wae to
Tee-pear-raer-ee," wholly for the gratification of a roomful of what Mr.
Anderson liked to call "them bastards," alias "dirty" Frenchmen, alias
_les poilus, les poilus divins_....
A little room. The Directeur's office? Or The Surveillant's? Comfort. O
yes, very, very comfortable. On my right a table. At the table three
persons. Reminds me of Noyon a bit, not unpleasantly of course. Three
persons: reading from left to right as I face them--a soggy, sleepy,
slumpy lump in a _gendarme's_ cape and cap, quite old, captain of
_gendarmes_, not at all interested, wrinkled coarse face, only
semi-_mechant_, large hard clumsy hands, floppingly disposed on table;
wily tidy man in civilian clothes, pen in hand, obviously lawyer,
_avocat_ type, little bald on top, sneaky civility, smells of bad perfume
or, at any rate, sweetish soap; tiny red-headed person, also civilian,
creased worrying excited face, amusing little body and hands, brief and
jumpy, must be a Dickens character, ought to spend his time sailing kites
of his own construction over other people's houses in gusty weather.
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