They all turned back into the office, and slammed the door. The agent stood before it again, looking truculently at Kreisler. He said:
“Passez votre chemin! Don’t stand gaping there!”
Then, giving him a shake, he hustled him to the top of the steps. A parting shove sent him staggering down into the road.
Kreisler walked on for a little. Eventually, in a quiet square, near the entrance to the town, he fell on a bench, drew his legs up and went to sleep.
At ten o’clock, the town lethargically retiring, all its legs moving slowly, like a spent insect, heavily boarding itself in, an agent came gradually along the square. Kreisler’s visit to the police-station was not known to this one. He stopped opposite the sleeping Kreisler, surveying him with lawful indignation.
“En voilà un joli gigolo!” He swayed energetically up to him.
“Eh! le copain! Tu voudrais coucher à la belle étoile?”
He shook him.
“Oh, là! Tu ne peux pas dormir ici! Houp! Dépêches-toi. Mets-toi debout!”
Kreisler responded only by a tired movement as though to bury his skull in the bench. A more violent jerk rolled him on the ground.