We paid our bill with a ten dinar (franc) note. The waiter fingered it a moment.
"Haven't you any money?" he asked.
"That is money."
"Silver, I mean."
"No."
He hesitated a moment. Then went away, turning the note over in his hands. After a while he returned and gave us our change.
The day passed in a queer sort of daze of doing things; between one act and another there was no definite sequence. The town itself was in a sort of suppressed twitter, everybody's movements seemed exaggerated, the eager ones moved faster, impelled by a sort of fear; the slow ones went slower, their feet dragging in a kind of despondency. At one time we found ourselves clambering up some steps to the mayor's office, in search of bread. By a window on the far side of the room was a man with a pale face, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and light hair: Churchin. We ran to him.
"What are you doing here?" he said gloomily.
We explained.