“I suppose I have,” I said without enthusiasm.
“Mais—mais—parfaitement—vous avez de la chance—uh-ah—uh-ah—parce que—comprenez-vous—votre camarade—ah-ah—a attrapé prison!”
“Uh-ah!” I said wearily.
“Whereas,” continued Monsieur, “you haven’t. You ought to be extraordinarily thankful and particularly happy!”
“I should rather have gone to prison with my friend,” I stated briefly; and went into the dining-room, leaving the Surveillant uh-ahing in nothing short of complete amazement.
I really believe that my condition worried him, incredible as this may seem. At the time I gave neither an extraordinary nor a particular damn about Monsieur le Surveillant, nor indeed about “l’autre américain” alias myself. Dimly, through a fog of disinterested inapprehension, I realized that—with the exception of the plantons and, of course, Apollyon—everyone was trying very hard to help me; that The Zulu, Jean, The Machine-Fixer, Mexique, The Young Skipper, even The Washing Machine Man (with whom I promenaded frequently when no one else felt like taking the completely unagreeable air) were kind, very kind, kinder than I can possibly say. As for Afrique and The Cook—there was nothing too good for me at this time. I asked the latter’s permission to cut wood, and was not only accepted as a sawyer, but encouraged with assurances of the best coffee there was, with real sugar dedans. In the little space outside the cuisine, between the building and la cour, I sawed away of a morning to my great satisfaction; from time to time clumping my saboted way into the chef’s domain in answer to a subdued signal from Afrique. Of an afternoon I sat with Jean or Mexique or The Zulu on the long beam of silent iron, pondering very carefully nothing at all, replying to their questions or responding to their observations in a highly mechanical manner. I felt myself to be, at last, a doll—taken out occasionally and played with and put back into its house and told to go to sleep….
One afternoon I was lying on my couch, thinking of the usual Nothing, when a sharp cry sung through The Enormous Room:
“Il tombe de la neige—Noël! Noël!”
I sat up. The Guard Champêtre was at the nearest window, dancing a little horribly and crying:
“Noël! Noël!”