"What?" I said, completely baffled by this extraordinary dissyllable.
"Comprenez vous fran-çais?"
"Un peu."
"Bon. Alors, vous vous ap-pel-lez KEW MANGZ, m'est-ce pas? Edouard KEW-MANGZ?"
"Oh," I said, relieved, "yes." It was really amazing, the way he writhed around the G.
"Comment ça se prononce en anglais?"
I told him.
He replied benevolently, somewhat troubled "uh-ah uh-ah uh-ah—why are you here, KEW-MANGZ?"
At this question I was for one moment angrier than I had ever before been in all my life. Then I realized the absurdity of the situation, and laughed.—"Sais pas."
The questionnaire continued:
"You were in the Red Cross?"—"Surely, in the Norton Harjes Ambulance, Section Sanitaire Vingt-et-Un."—"You had a friend there?"—"Naturally."—"Il a écrit, votre ami, des bêtises, n'est ce pas?"—"So they told me. N'en sais rien."—"What sort of person was your friend?"—"He was a magnificent person, always très gentil with me."—(With a queer pucker the fencer remarked) "Your friend got you into a lot of trouble, though."—(To which I replied with a broad grin) "N'importe, we are camarades."
A stream of puzzled uh-ahs followed this reply. The fencer, or rooster or whatever he might be, finally, picking up the lamp and the lock, said: "Alors, viens avec moi, KEW-MANGZ." I started to pick up the sac, but he told me it would be kept in the office (we being in the office). I said I had checked a large sac and my fur overcoat at Briouse, and he assured me they would be sent on by train. He now dismissed the gendarmes, who had been listening curiously to the examination. As I was conducted from the bureau I asked him point-blank: "How long am I to stay here?"—to which he answered "Oh, peutêtre un jour, deux jours, je ne sais pas."
