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I know that some days later he, along with that deadly and poisonous criminal Monsieur Auguste and that aged archtraitor Monsieur Pet-airs, and that incomparably wicked person Surplice, and a ragged gentle being who one day presented us with a broken spoon which he had found somewhere the gift being a purely spontaneous mark of approval and affection who for this reason was known as The Spoonman and the vast and immeasurable honour of departing for Precigne pour la duree de la guerre.
But the excellent and inimitable and altogether benignant French Government was not satisfied with its own generosity in presenting one merely with Precigne beyond that lurked a cauchemar called by the singularly poetic name: Isle de Groix. A man who went to Isle de Groix was done. As the Surveillant said to us all, leaning out of a littlish window, and to me personally upon occasion
Surplice was, as usual, very interested, enormously interested. So were we: for the names respectively belonged to Monsieur Auguste, Monsieur Pet-airs, The Wanderer, Surplice and The Spoonman. These men had been judged. These men were going to Precigne. These men would be prisoniers pour la duree de la guerre.
I can and will say, however, that this face was most hideous perhaps that is the word when it grinned. When The Fighting Sheeney grinned you felt that he desired to eat you, and was prevented from eating you only by a superior desire to eat everybody at once. He and Rockyfeller came to us from, I think it was, the Sante; both accompanied B. to Precigne.
In the latter case I certainly have no right to boast, even should I find myself so inclined; for B. took with him to Precigne a case of what his father, upon B.'s arrival in The Home of The Brave, diagnosed as scurvy which scurvy made my mutilations look like thirty cents or even less.
If the Commission found that they were wicked persons or dangerous persons, or undesirable persons, or puzzling persons, or persons in some way insusceptible of analysis, they were sent from La Ferte to a "regular" prison, called Precigne, in the province of Sarthe. About Precigne the most awful rumors were spread.
Once in Precigne you were "in" for good and all, pour la duree de la guerre, which duree was a subject of occasional and dismal speculation occasional for reasons, as I have mentioned, of mental health; dismal for unreasons of diet, privation, filth, and other trifles. La Ferte was, then, a stepping stone either to freedom or to Precigne.
and I say, No. Precigne, feeling weirdly depressed, and Surplice is standing to my left, contemplating the departure of the incorrigibles with interested disappointment Surplice of whom no man takes any notice when that man leaves, be it for Hell or Paradise.... And once a week the maitre de chambre throws soap on the mattresses, and I hear a voice "monsieur, voulez pas?"
Our uncertainty was augmented by the confusion emanating from a particular corner of The Enormous Room, in which corner The Fighting Sheeney was haranguing a group of spectators on the pregnant topic: What I won't do to Precigne when I get there.
The little Machine-Fixer, I happen to know, did finally leave La Ferte for Precigne. ... In the kitchen worked a very remarkable person. Who wore sabots. And sang continuously in a very subdued way to himself as he stirred the huge black kettles. We, that is to say, B. and I, became acquainted with Afrique very gradually. You did not know Afrique suddenly.
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