I had laid a piece of my piece of chocolate on the window-sill. As I lay on my back a little silhouette came along the sill and ate that piece of a piece, taking something like four minutes to do so. He then looked at me, I then smiled at him, and we parted, each happier than before.
My cellule was cool, and I fell asleep easily.
(Thinking of Paris.)
… Awakened by a conversation whose vibrations I clearly felt through the left wall:
Turnkey-creature: “What?”
A moldly moldering molish voice, suggesting putrefying tracts and orifices, answers with a cob-webbish patience so far beyond despair as to be indescribable: “La soupe.”
“Well, the soup, I just gave it to you, Monsieur Savy.”
“Must have a little something else. My money is chez le directeur. Please take my money which is chez le directeur and give me anything else.”
“All right, the next time I come to see you to-day I’ll bring you a salad, a nice salad, Monsieur.”
“Thank you, Monsieur,” the voice moldered.