_"
"That's all," the Directeur said. "You will call for your money at the
_bureau_ of the Gestionnaire before leaving."
"Go and get ready," the Fencer said, and I certainly saw a smile....
"I? Am? Going? To? Paris?" somebody who certainly wasn't myself remarked
in a kind of whisper.
"_Parfaitement._"--Pettish. Apollyon. But how changed. Who the devil is
myself? Where in Hell am I? What is Paris--a place, a somewhere, a city,
life; (to live: infinitive. Present first singular: I live. Thou livest).
The Directeur. The Surveillant. La Ferte Mace, Orne, France. "Edward E.
Cummings will report immediately." Edward E. Cummings. The Surveillant. A
piece of yellow paper. The Directeur. A necktie. Paris. Life. _Liberte_.
_La liberte_. "_La Liberte!_" I almost shouted in agony.
"_Depechez-vous. Savez-vous, vous allez partir de suite. Cet apres-midi.
Pour Paris._"
I turned, I turned so suddenly as almost to bowl over the Black Holster,
Black Holster and all; I turned toward the door, I turned upon the Black
Holster, I turned into Edward E. Cummings, I turned into what was dead
and is now alive, I turned into a city, I turned into a dream--
I am standing in The Enormous Room for the last time. I am saying
good-bye.
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