I went to another window and looked out. Sure enough. Snow was falling, gradually and wonderfully falling, silently falling through the thick soundless Autumn…. It seemed to me supremely beautiful, the snow. There was about it something unspeakably crisp and exquisite, something perfect and minute and gentle and fatal…. The Guard Champêtre’s cry began a poem in the back of my head, a poem about the snow, a poem in French, beginning Il tombe de la neige, Noël, Noël. I watched the snow. After a long time I returned to my bunk and I lay down, closing my eyes; feeling the snow’s minute and crisp touch falling gently and exquisitely, falling perfectly and suddenly, through the thick soundless autumn of my imagination….
“L’américain! L’américain!”
Someone is speaking to me.
“Le petit belge avec le bras cassé est là-bas, à la porte, il veut parler….”
I marched the length of the room. The Enormous Room is filled with a new and beautiful darkness, the darkness of the snow outside, falling and falling and falling with the silent and actual gesture which has touched the soundless country of my mind as a child touches a toy it loves….
Through the locked door I heard a nervous whisper: “Dis à l’américain que je veux parler avec lui.”—“Me voici” I said.
“Put your ear to the key-hole, M’sieu’ Jean,” said the Machine-Fixer’s voice. The voice of the little Machine-Fixer, tremendously excited. I obey—“Alors. Qu’est-ce que c’est, mon ami?”
“M’sieu’ Jean! Le Directeur va vous appeler tout de suite! You must get ready instantly! Wash and shave, eh? He’s going to call you right away. And don’t forget! Oloron! You will ask to go to Oloron Sainte Marie, where you can paint! Oloron Sainte Marie, Basse Pyrenées! N’oubliez pas, M’sieu’ Jean! Et dépêchez-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. As a suspect I would be sent to some place in France, any place I wanted to go, provided it was not on or near the sea coast. That was in order that I should not perhaps try to escape from France. The Machine-Fixer had advised me to ask to go to Oloron Sainte Marie. I should say that, as a painter, the Pyrenees particularly appealed to me. “Et qu’il fait beau, là-bas! The snow on the mountains! And it’s not cold. And what mountains! You can live there very cheaply. As a suspect you will merely have to report once a month to the chief of police of Oloron Sainte Marie; he’s an old friend of mine! He’s a fine, fat, red-cheeked man, very kindly. He will make it easy for you, M’sieu’ Jean, and will help you out in every way, when you tell him you are a friend of the little Belgian with the broken arm. Tell him I sent you. You will have a very fine time, and you can paint: such scenery to paint! My God—not like what you see from these windows. I advise you by all means to ask to go to Oloron.”
So thinking I lathered my face, standing before Judas’ mirror.