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"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.
The astounded plantons and the embarrassed Surveillant followed, the latter closing the doors behind him. I was left with a cloud of angry witnesses. An hour later the doors opened, Jean entered quietly, and the doors shut. As I lay on my bed I could see him perfectly. He was almost naked.
But the vast and unutterable success achieved by the Menagerie was this Rockyfeller, shortly after, left our ill-bred society for "l'hopital"; the very same "hospital" whose comforts and seclusion Monsieur le Surveillant had so dextrously recommended to B. and myself.
Upon which ground the balayeur in this case a well-knit keen-eyed agile man, with a sense of humour and sharp perception of men, women and things in particular and in general was called before the bar of an impromptu court, held by M. le Surveillant in The Enormous Room after the promenade.
Now the Surveillant returned and made a speech, to the effect that he had received independently of each other the stories of four men, that by all counts le negre was absolutely to blame, that le negre had caused an inexcusable trouble to the authorities and to his fellow-prisoners by this wholly unjustified conflict, and that as a punishment the negre would now suffer the consequences of his guilt in the cabinot.
"You're god damn right its malheureux" I said, forgetting my French. "Quand meme, he has resisted authority" The Surveillant gently continued: "Now Jean, be quiet, you will be taken to the cabinot. You may as well go quietly and behave yourself like a good boy." At this I am sure my eyes started out of my head. All I could think of to say was: "Attends, un petit moment."
B. said: "The Surveillant!" At the end of the corridor, opposite the kitchen window, there was a flight of stairs. There was a renovated look about him which made me laugh. Also his pose was ludicrously suggestive of Napoleon reviewing the armies of France. Our column's first rank moved by him.
It should be added that there were prisoners who had passed the Commission, two, three, four, and even five times, without any appreciable result; there were prisonieres who had remained in La Ferte a year, and even eighteen months. As assistant, the Surveillant had a mail clerk who acted as translator on occasion.
Who the devil is myself? Present first singular: I live. 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.
After a few more questions I signed some papers which lay on the desk, and was told by Apollyon to get out. "When can I expect to leave?" I asked the Surveillant. "Oh, it's only a matter of days, of weeks perhaps," he assured me benignantly. "You'll leave when it's proper for you to leave!" Apollyon burst out. "Do you understand?" "Yes, indeed.
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