"Well, you are going to leave."
Which words were pronounced in a voice so subdued, so constrained, so mild, so altogether ingratiating, that I could not imagine to whom it belonged. Surely not to the Fiend, to Apollyon, to the Prince of Hell, to Satan, to Monsieur le Directeur du Camp de Triage de la Ferté Macé--
"Get ready. You will leave immediately."
Then I noticed the Surveillant. Upon his face I saw an almost smile. He returned my gaze and remarked:
"Uh-ah, uh-ah, Oui."
"That's all," the Directeur said. "You will call for your money at the bureau of the Gestionnaire before leaving."
"Go and get ready," the Fencer said, and I certainly saw a smile....
"I? Am? Going? To? Paris?" somebody who certainly wasn't myself remarked in a kind of whisper.
"Parfaitement."--Pettish. Apollyon. But how changed. Who the devil is myself? Where in Hell am I? What is Paris--a place, a somewhere, a city, life; (to live: infinitive. Present first singular: I live. Thou livest). The Directeur. The Surveillant. La Ferté Macé, Orne, France. "Edward E. Cummings will report immediately." Edward E. Cummings. The Surveillant. A piece of yellow paper. The Directeur. A necktie. Paris. Life. Liberté. La liberté. "La Liberté!" I almost shouted in agony.
"Dépêchez-vous. Savez-vous, vous allez partir de suite. Cet après-midi. Pour Paris."
I turned, I turned so suddenly as almost to bowl over the Black Holster, Black Holster and all; I turned toward the door, I turned upon the Black Holster, I turned into Edward E. Cummings, I turned into what was dead and is now alive, I turned into a city, I turned into a dream--
I am standing in The Enormous Room for the last time. I am saying good-bye. No, it is not I who am saying good-bye. It is in fact somebody else, possibly myself. Perhaps myself
