A perfectly typical runt of a Paris bull eyed us. The older saluted him with infinite respect, the respect of a shabby rube deacon for a well-dressed burglar. They exchanged a few well-chosen words, in French of course. “What ya got there?”—“An American.”—“What’s wrong with him?”—“H-mmm” mysterious shrug of the shoulders followed by a whisper in the ear of the city thug. The latter contented himself with “Ha-aaa”—plus a look at me which was meant to wipe me off the earth’s face (I pretended to be studying the morning meanwhile). Then we moved on, followed by ferocious stares from the Paris bull. Evidently I was getting to be more of a criminal every minute; I should probably be shot to-morrow, not (as I had assumed erroneously) the day after. I drank the morning with renewed vigor, thanking heaven for the coffee, Paris; and feeling complete confidence in myself. I should make a great speech (in Midi French). I should say to the firing squad: “Gentlemen, c’est de la blague, tu sais? Moi, je connais la soeur du conducteur.” … They would ask me when I preferred to die. I should reply, “Pardon me, you wish to ask me when I prefer to become immortal?” I should answer: “What matter? It’s all the same to me, because there isn’t any more time—the French Government forbids it.”
My laughter surprised the older considerably. He would have been more astonished had I yielded to the well-nigh irrepressible inclination, which at the moment suffused me, to clap him heartily upon the back.
Everything was blague. The driver, the café, the police, the morning, and least and last the excellent French Government.
We had walked for a half hour or more. My guide and protector now inquired of a workingman the location of the boucheries? “There is one right in front of you,” he was told. Sure enough, not a block away. I laughed again. It was eight years all right.
The older bought a great many things in the next five minutes: sausage, cheese, bread, chocolate, pinard rouge. A bourgeoise with an unagreeable face and suspicion of me written in headlines all over her mouth served us with quick hard laconicisms of movement. I hated her and consequently refused my captor’s advice to buy a little of everything (on the ground that it would be a long time till the next meal), contenting myself with a cake of chocolate—rather bad chocolate, but nothing to what I was due to eat during the next three months. Then we retraced our steps, arriving at the station after several mistakes and inquiries, to find the younger faithfully keeping guard over my two sacs and overcoat.
The older and I sat down, and the younger took his turn at promenading. I got up to buy a Fantasio at the stand ten steps away, and the older jumped up and escorted me to and from it. I think I asked him what he would read? and he said “Nothing.” Maybe I bought him a journal. So we waited, eyed by everyone in the Gare, laughed at by the officers and their marraines, pointed at by sinewy dames and decrepit bonhommes—the centre of amusement for the whole station. In spite of my reading I felt distinctly uncomfortable. Would it never be Twelve? Here comes the younger, neat as a pin, looking fairly sterilized. He sits down on my left. Watches are ostentatiously consulted. It is time. En avant. I sling myself under my bags.
“Where are we going now?” I asked the older. Curling the tips of his mustachios, he replied, “Mah-say.”
Marseilles! I was happy once more. I had always wanted to go to that great port of the Mediterranean, where one has new colors and strange customs, and where the people sing when they talk. But how extraordinary to have come to Paris—and what a trip lay before us. I was much muddled about the whole thing. Probably I was to be deported. But why from Marseilles? Where was Marseilles anyway? I was probably all wrong about its location. Who cared, after all? At least we were leaving the pointings and the sneers and the half-suppressed titters….
Two fat and respectable bonhommes, the two gendarmes, and I, made up one compartment. The former talked an animated stream, the guards and I were on the whole silent. I watched the liquidating landscape and dozed happily. The gendarmes dozed, one at each door. The train rushed lazily across the earth, between farmhouses, into fields, along woods … the sunlight smacked my eye and cuffed my sleepy mind with colour.
I was awakened by a noise of eating. My protectors, knife in hand, were consuming their meat and bread, occasionally tilting their bidons on high and absorbing the thin streams which spurted therefrom. I tried a little chocolate. The bonhommes were already busy with their repast. The older gendarme watched me chewing away at the chocolate, then commanded, “Take some bread.” This astonished me, I confessed, beyond anything which had heretofore occurred. I gazed mutely at him, wondering whether the gouvernement français had made away with his wits. He had relaxed amazingly: his cap lay beside him, his tunic was unbuttoned, he slouched in a completely undisciplined posture—his face seemed to have been changed for a peasant’s, it was almost open in expression and almost completely at ease. I seized the offered hunk, and chewed vigorously on it. Bread was bread. The older appeared pleased with my appetite; his face softened still more, as he remarked: “Bread without wine doesn’t taste good,” and proffered his bidon. I drank as much as I dared, and thanked him: “Ça va mieux.” The pinard went straight to my brain, I felt my mind cuddled by a pleasant warmth, my thoughts became invested with a great contentment. The train stopped; and the younger sprang out, carrying the empty canteens of himself and his comrade. When they and he returned, I enjoyed another cup. From that moment till we reached our destination at about eight o’clock the older and I got on extraordinarily well. When the gentlemen descended at their station he waxed almost familiar. I was in excellent spirits; rather drunk; extremely tired. Now that the two guardians and myself were alone in the compartment, the curiosity which had hitherto been stifled by etiquette and pride of capture came rapidly to light. Why was I here, anyway? I seemed well enough to them.—Because my friend had written some letters, I told them.—But I had done nothing myself?—I explained that we used to be together all the time, mon ami et moi; that was the only reason which I knew of.—It was very funny to see how this explanation improved matters. The older in particular was immensely relieved.—I would without doubt, he said, be set free immediately upon my arrival. The French government didn’t keep people like me in prison.—They fired some questions about America at me, to which I imaginatively replied. I think I told the younger that the average height of buildings in America was nine hundred metres. He stared and shook his head doubtfully, but I convinced him in the end. Then in my turn I asked questions, the first being: Where was my friend?—It seems that my friend had left Gré (or whatever it was) the morning of the day I had entered it.—Did they know where my friend was going?—They couldn’t say. They had been told that he was very dangerous.—So we talked on and on: How long had I studied French? I spoke very well. Was it hard to learn English?—