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Here and there, in a kind of sonal darkness, solid sincere unintelligible absurd wisps of profanity heavily flickered. Optically the phenomenon was equally remarkable: seated waggingly swaying corpselike figures, swaggering, pounding with their little spoons, roaring, hoarse, unkempt. Evidently Monsieur le Surveillant had been forgotten. All at once the roar bulged unbearably.
Seven or eight persons at once began explaining the fight to the Surveillant, who could make nothing out of their accounts and therefore called aside a trusted older man in order to get his version. The two retired from the room.
May not the French Government deliberately have allowed them to escape, after through its incomparable spy system learning that The Barber and his young friend were about to attempt the life of the Surveillant with an atomizer brim-full of T.N.T.? Nothing could after all be more highly probable.
In the course of the next ten thousand years it may be possible to find Delectable Mountains without going to prison captivity, I mean, Monsieur le Surveillant it may be possible, I daresay, to encounter Delectable Mountains who are not in prison.... The Autumn wore on.
I inquire ignorantly. "Why, you know of course," he says surprised. "Burnt sienna, cadmium yellow, and er there! I can't think of it. I know it as well as I know my own face. So do you. Well, that's stupid of me." "Did you notice the portrait hanging in the bureau of the Surveillant?" Count Bragard inquired one day. "That's a pretty piece of work, Mr. Cummings. Notice it when you get a chance.
The shave and the wash completed I felt considerably refreshed. "L'americain en bas!" It was the Black Holster. I carefully adjusted my tunic and obeyed him. The Directeur and the Surveillant were in consultation when I entered the latter's office. Apollyon, seated at a desk, surveyed me very fiercely.
"Qu'est-ce que vous faites," etc., and the planton gave me a good shove in the direction of another flight of stairs. I obligingly ascended; thinking of the Surveillant as a spider, elegantly poised in the centre of his nefarious web, waiting for a fly to make too many struggles.... At the top of this flight I was confronted by a second hall.
The Directeur said he knew nothing about it; the Surveillant told me confidentially that it was a mistake on the part of the French government; that I would be out directly. He's not such a bad sort. So I am waiting; every day I expect orders from the English government for my release. The whole thing is preposterous. I wrote to the Embassy and told them so.
But I had been sent for "Do you know, you have been decided to be a suspect?" Monsieur le Surveillant turned to me, "and now you may choose where you wish to be sent." Apollyon was blowing and wheezing and muttering ... clenching his huge pinkish hands. I addressed the Surveillant, ignoring Apollyon. "I should like, if I may, to go to Oloron Sainte Marie."
Very interesting." "You want to escape from France, that's it?" the Directeur snarled. "Oh, I hardly should say that!" the Surveillant interposed soothingly; "he is an artist, and Oloron is a very pleasant place for an artist. A very nice place, I hardly think his choice of Oloron a cause for suspicion. I should think it a very natural desire on his part." His superior subsided snarling.
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