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And the Machine-Fixer, whose opinion of this blond putain grew and increased and soared with every day of her martyrdom till the Machine-Fixer's former classification of les femmes exploded and disappeared entirely the Machine-Fixer who would have fallen on his little knees to Lena had she given him a chance, and kissed the hem of her striped skirt in an ecstasy of adoration told me that Lena on being finally released, walked upstairs herself, holding hard to the banister without a look for anyone, "having eyes as big as tea-cups."
Be it understood that the Machine-Fixer was human, that he would take a letter provided he liked the sender and deliver it to the sender's adoree without a murmur. That was simply a good deed done for a friend; it did not imply that he approved of the friend's choice, which for strictly moral reasons he invariably and to the friend's very face violently deprecated. It was in fact inevitable.
By and large, that was the trouble the Machine-Fixer had a soul. But if, by some fatal, some incomparably fatal accident, this man has a soul ah, then we have and truly have most horribly what is called in La Ferte Mace by those who have known it: La Misere.
From the day that The Young Pole emerged from cabinot he was our friend. The blague had been at last knocked out of him, thanks to Un Mangeur de Blanc, as the little Machine-Fixer expressively called The Fighting Sheeney. "Bon, eh? Bien fait, eh?" and a few days later asked us for money, even hinting that he would be pleased to become our special protector.
He and Monsieur Auguste together were a fine sight, a sight which made me feel that I came of a race of giants. I am afraid it was more or less as giants that B. and I pitied the Machine-Fixer still this was not really our fault, since the Machine-Fixer came to us with his troubles much as a very minute and helpless child comes to a very large and omnipotent one.
She was as intelligent as she was virtuous and had nothing to do with her frailer sisters, so the Machine-Fixer informed us with a quickly passing flash of joy. Then he added: "And what would my wife say to me if I came home to her and presented her with that which this creature had presented to me? They are animals," cried the little Machine-Fixer; "all they want is a man.
In deep converse with Bathhouse John we beheld the very same youth who, some time since, had drifted to a place beside me at la soupe Pete The Ghost, white and determined, blond and fragile: Pete the Shadow.... I forget who, but someone I think it was the little Machine-Fixer established the truth that an American was to leave the next morning. That, moreover, said American's name was B.
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.
They don't care who he is; they want a man. But they won't get me!" And he warned us to beware. Les femmes, quoth the Machine-Fixer, who had been many times an eye-witness of this proceeding, lined up talking and laughing and crime of crimes smoking cigarettes, outside the bureau of M. le Medecin Major. "Une femme entre. Elle se leve les jupes jusqu'au menton et se met sur le banc.
You will ask to go to Oloron Sainte Marie, where you can paint! Oloron Sainte Marie, Basse Pyrenees! N'oubliez pas, M'sieu' Jean! Et depechez-vous!" "Merci bien, mon ami!" I remember now. The little Machine-Fixer and I had talked. It seemed that la commission had decided that I was not a criminal, but only a suspect.
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