I addressed the Surveillant, ignoring Apollyon. “I should like, if I may, to go to Oloron Sainte Marie.”
“What do you want to go there for?” the Directeur exploded threateningly.
I explained that I was by profession an artist, and had always wanted to view the Pyrenees. “The environment of Oloron would be most stimulating to an artist—”
“Do you know it’s near Spain?” he snapped, looking straight at me.
I knew it was, and therefore replied with a carefully childish ignorance: “Spain? Indeed! 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.
After a few more questions I signed some papers which lay on the desk, and was told by Apollyon to get out.
“When can I expect to leave?” I asked the Surveillant.
“Oh, it’s only a matter of days, of weeks perhaps,” he assured me benignantly.