"_Mais qu'est-ce que vous avez_," Monsieur le Surveillant demanded, in a
tone of profound if kindly astonishment, as I wended my lonely way to _la
soupe_ some days after the disappearance of _les partis_.
I stood and stared at him very stupidly without answering, having indeed
nothing at all to say.
"But why are you so sad?" he asked.
"I suppose I miss my friend," I ventured.
"_Mais--mais--_" he puffed and panted like a very old and fat person
trying to persuade a bicycle to climb a hill--"_mais--vous avez de la
chance!_"
"I suppose I have," I said without enthusiasm.
"_Mais--mais--parfaitement--vous avez de la
chance--uh-ah--uh-ah--parceque--comprenez-vous--votre camarade--ah-ah--a
attrape prison!_"
"Uh-ah!" I said wearily.
"Whereas," continued Monsieur, "you haven't. You ought to be
extraordinarily thankful and particularly happy!"
"I should rather have gone to prison with my friend," I stated briefly;
and went into the dining-room, leaving the Surveillant uh-ahing in
nothing short of complete amazement.
I really believe that my condition worried him, incredible as this may
seem. At the time I gave neither an extraordinary nor a particular damn
about Monsieur le Surveillant, nor indeed about "_l'autre americain_"
alias myself.
Pages:
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398