At last they
asked each other if each other wanted to ask the man before each other
anything more, and each other not wanting to do so, they said:
"_C'est fini_."
As at Noyon, I had made an indisputably favourable impression upon
exactly one of my three examiners. I refer, in the present case, to the
red-headed little gentleman who was rather decent to me. I do not exactly
salute him in recognition of this decency; I bow to him, as I might bow
to somebody who said he was sorry he couldn't give me a match, but there
was a cigar store just around the corner, you know.
At "_C'est fini_" the Directeur leaped into the limelight with a savage
admonition to the Wooden Hand--who saluted, opened the door suddenly, and
looked at me with (dare I say it?) admiration. Instead of availing myself
of this means of escape I turned to the little kite-flying gentleman and
said:
"If you please, sir, will you be so good as to tell me what will become
of my friend?"
The little kite-flying gentleman did not have time to reply, for the
perfumed presence stated dryly and distinctly:
"We cannot say anything to you upon that point."
I gave him a pleasant smile, which said, If I could see your intestines
very slowly embracing a large wooden drum rotated by means of a small
iron crank turned gently and softly by myself, I should be
extraordinarily happy--and I bowed softly and gently to Monsieur le
Directeur, and I went through the door using all the perpendicular inches
which God had given me.
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