on earth. The muscle bowed politely in our direction, the grin remarked musically: "Bo'jour, tou'l'monde"; then came a cascade of laughter. Its effect on the spectators was instantaneous: they roared and danced with joy. "Comment vous appelez-vous?" was fired from the hubbub.—"J'm'appelle Jean, moi," the muscle rapidly answered with sudden solemnity, proudly gazing to left and right as if expecting a challenge to this statement: but when none appeared, it relapsed as suddenly into laughter—as if hugely amused at itself and everyone else including a little and tough boy, whom I had not previously noted, although his entrance had coincided with the muscle's.
Thus into the misère of La Ferté Macé stepped lightly and proudly Jean le Nègre.
Of all the fine people in La Ferté, Monsieur Jean ("le noir" as he was entitled by his enemies) swaggers in my memory as the finest.
Jean's first act was to complete the distribution (begun, he announced, among the plantons who had escorted him upstairs) of two pockets full of Cubebs. Right and left he gave them up to the last, remarking carelessly, "J'ne veux, moi."
Après la soupe (which occurred a few minutes after le noir's entry) B. and I and the greater number of prisoners descended to the cour for our afternoon promenade. The cook spotted us immediately and desired us to "catch water"; which we did, three cartfuls of it, earning our usual café sucré. On quitting the kitchen after this delicious repast (which as usual mitigated somewhat the effects of the swill that was our official nutriment) we entered the cour. And we noticed at once a well-made figure standing conspicuously by itself, and poring with extraordinary intentness over the pages of a London Daily Mail which it was holding upside-down. The reader was culling choice bits of news of a highly sensational nature, and exclaiming from time to time: "You don't say! Look, the King of England is sick. Some news!... What? The queen too? Good God! What's this?—My father is dead! Oh, well. The war is over. Good."
