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"He is a bad fellow, a criminal, a traitor, an insult to civilization," Apollyon roared into my face. "Yes?" I said again. "You'd better be careful!" the Directeur shouted. "Do you know what's happened to your friend?" "Sais pas," I said. "He's gone to prison where he belongs!" Apollyon roared. "Do you understand what that means?" "Perhaps," I answered, somewhat insolently I fear.
Simultaneously with my arrival at the summit of dirtiness by the calendar, as I guess, December the twenty-first came the Black Holster into The Enormous Room and with an excited and angry mien proclaimed loudly: "L'americain! Allez chez le Directeur. De suite." I protested mildly that I was dirty. "N'importe.
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.
And so it continued, the flattering stream, while Diaz listened, touched, and full of pride. 'Ah! I said. 'It is not I who deserve praise. An electric bell trembled in the theatre. Morenita picked up her cloak. 'Mon ami, she warned Villedo. 'I must go. Diaz, mon petit! you will persuade Mademoiselle Peel to come to the room of the Directeur later.
It reminded her vaguely of some hastily-constructed Exhibition at Earl's Court or Olympia. Then she was pushed inside a swinging door, into a freezing corridor; where the Prison Directeur and Monsieur Walcker were standing irresolute, weeping.... "Where is Bertie?" she asked. "He is being prepared for the shooting party," they answered. "It will soon be over ... dear dear lady ... try to be calm "
Claretie, Directeur of the Comédie Française, a most cultivated, charming man. He is generally rather chary of letting his pensionnaires play en province, but this really was an occasion to break through his rules, and he was quite ready to help us in every way. We had also M. Sebline, Senator of the Aisne, and l'Abbé Maréchal, curé of La Ferté-Milon.
Some of my readers may, perhaps, not have seen an authentic statement of this most horrid circumstance, I shall therefore give a translation of the letter of Maillard Lescourt, major of artillery, taken from the Journal des Debats of the 7th April: "I was employed, on the evening before the attack of Paris, in assembling the horses necessary for the removal of the artillery, and was assisted in this duty by the officers of the 'Direction Generale. At nine at night a colonel gallopped up to the gate of the grating of St Dominique, where I was standing, and asked to speak to the Directeur d'Artillerie.
"In New York, also," asked Claire proudly, "are you directeur of the electric lights?" "On Broadway alone," Billy explained reprovingly, "there is one sign that uses more bulbs than there are in the whole of Hayti!" "New York is a large town!" exclaimed Claire. "It's a large sign," corrected Billy. "But," he pointed out, "with no money we'll never see it.
The Directeur came down and sent them flying. The Surveillant and his plantons were as helpless as if they had been children. Monsieur Jean quelque chose." I gave him another match. "Merci, Monsieur Jean." He struck it, drew on his pipe, lowered it, and went on: "They were helpless, and men. I am little. I have only one arm, tu sais.
One day, late in February, 1918, when there was a premature breath and feeling of Spring in the air, she called on her friend as he had become the Directeur of the Prison of Saint-Gilles, and asked him since she herself could not deign to ask any favour or concession of the German authorities to obtain for her a permit to proceed to Tervueren, the railway service between Brussels and that place having been reopened.
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