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The planton gave me another shove, faced the door, knocked twice, and cried in accents of profound respect: "Monsieur le Gestionnaire" after which he gazed at me with really supreme contempt, his neat pig-like face becoming almost circular. I said to myself: This Gestionnaire, whoever he is, must be a very terrible person, a frightful person, a person utterly without mercy.
He did not, however, contradict himself in one statement: "Les francais sont des cochons" to which we heartily agreed, and which won him the approvel of the Hollanders. The next day I had my hands full acting as interpreter for "le noir qui comprends pas francais." I was summoned from the cour to elucidate a great grief which Jean had been unable to explain to the Gestionnaire.
He returned my gaze and remarked: "Uh-ah, uh-ah, Oui." "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.
and over and beneath and around the voice I saw frightened faces of women hanging in the smoke, some screaming with their lips apart and their eyes closed, some staring with wide eyes; and among the women's faces I discovered the large, placid, interested expression of the Gestionnaire and the nervous clicking eyes of the Surveillant.
M'sieu' Jean, ils sont tous les plantons et le Directeur Lui-Meme et le Surveillant et le Gestionnaire et tous ils sont des " and he said very nicely what they were, and lit his little black pipe with a crisp curving upward gesture, and shook like a blade of grass.
I took them as a monkey takes a cocoanut. "Do you wish?" the Gestionnaire nodded toward me, addressing the Fencer. "No, no" the Fencer said bowingly. "I have talked to him already." "Call that planton!" cried Monsieur le Gestionnaire, to the little thing. The little thing ran out dutifully and called in a weak voice "Planton!" A gruff but respectful "Oui" boomed from below-stairs.
B. said to me "Probably he's going to take you to the Gestionnaire. You're supposed to see him when you arrive. He's got your money and will keep it for you, and give you an allowance twice a week. You can't draw more than 20 francs. I'll hold your bread and spoon." "Where the devil is the American?" cried the planton. "Here I am." "Follow me."
I was sure that the Gestionnaire was a very fierce man probably a lean slight person who would rush at me from the nearest door saying "Hands up" in French, whatever that may be. The door opposite me stood open. I looked in. There was the Surveillant standing, hands behind back, approvingly regarding my progress.
I had, naturally, no money; but B. reassured me that before the day was over I should see the Gestionnaire and make arrangements for drawing on the supply of ready cash which the gendarmes who took me from Gre had confided to The Surveillant's care; eventually I could also draw on my account with Norton-Harjes in Paris; meantime he had quelques sous which might well go into chocolate and cigarettes.
A shut door indicated the existence of a being directly over the Surveillant's holy head. Upon this door, lest I should lose time in speculating, was in ample letters inscribed: GESTIONNAIRE I felt unutterably lost. I approached the door. I even started to push it. "Attends, Nom de Dieu."
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