Chapter IV: Le Nouveau (1)

_“Vous ne voulez pas de café?”_

The threatening question recited in a hoarse voice woke me like a shot. Sprawled half on and half off my _paillasse_, I looked suddenly up into a juvenile pimply face with a red tassel bobbing in its eyes. A boy in a Belgian uniform was stooping over me. In one hand a huge pail a third full of liquid slime. I said fiercely: “_Au contraire, je veux bien._” And collapsed on the mattress.

“_Pas de quart, vous?_” the face fired at me.

“_Comprends pas_,” I replied, wondering what on earth the words meant.

“English?”

“American.”

At this moment a tin cup appeared mysteriously out of the gloom and was rapidly filled from the pail, after which operation the tassel remarked: “Your friend here” and disappeared.

I decided I had gone completely crazy.

The cup had been deposited near me. Not daring to approach it, I boosted my aching corpse on one of its futile elbows and gazed blankly around. My eyes, wading laboriously through a dark atmosphere, a darkness gruesomely tactile, perceived only here and there lively patches of vibrating humanity. My ears recognised English, something which I took to be low-German and which was Belgian, Dutch, Polish, and what I guessed to be Russian.

Trembling with this chaos, my hand sought the cup. The cup was not warm; the contents, which I hastily gulped, were not even tepid. The taste was dull, almost bitter, clinging, thick, nauseating. I felt a renewed interest in living as soon as the deathful swallow descended to my abdomen, very much as a suicide who changes his mind after the fatal dose. I decided that it would be useless to vomit. I sat up. I looked around.

The darkness was rapidly going out of the sluggish stinking air. I was sitting on my mattress at one end of a sort of room, filled with pillars; ecclesiastical in feeling. I already perceived it to be of enormous length. My mattress resembled an island: all around it on the floor at distances varying from a quarter of an inch to ten feet (which constituted the limit of distinct vision) reposed startling identities. There was blood in some of them. Others consisted of a rind of blueish matter sustaining a core of yellowish froth. From behind me a chunk of hurtling spittle joined its fellows. I decided to stand up.

At this moment, at the far end of the room, I seemed to see an extraordinary vulture-like silhouette leap up from nowhere. It rushed a little way in my direction crying hoarsely “_Corvée d’eau!_”—stopped, bent down at what I perceived to be a _paillasse_ like mine, jerked what was presumably the occupant by the feet, shook him, turned to the next, and so on up to six. As there seemed to be innumerable _paillasses_, laid side by side at intervals of perhaps a foot with their heads to the wall on three sides of me, I was wondering why the vulture had stopped at six. On each mattress a crude imitation of humanity, wrapped ear-high in its blanket, lay and drank from a cup like mine and spat long and high into the room. The ponderous reek of sleepy bodies undulated toward me from three directions. I had lost sight of the vulture in a kind of insane confusion which arose from the further end of the room. It was as if he had touched off six high explosives. Occasional pauses in the minutely crazy din were accurately punctuated by exploding bowels; to the great amusement of innumerable somebodies, whose precise whereabouts the gloom carefully guarded.

I felt that I was the focus of a group of indistinct recumbents who were talking about me to one another in many incomprehensible tongues. I noticed beside every pillar (including the one beside which I had innocently thrown down my mattress the night before) a good sized pail, overflowing with urine, and surrounded by a large irregular puddle. My mattress was within an inch of the nearest puddle. What I took to be a man, an amazing distance off, got out of bed and succeeded in locating the pail nearest to him after several attempts. Ten invisible recumbents yelled at him in six languages.

All at once a handsome figure rose from the gloom at my elbow. I smiled stupidly into his clear hardish eyes. And he remarked pleasantly:

“Your friend’s here, Johnny, and wants to see you.”

A bulge of pleasure swooped along my body, chasing aches and numbness, my muscles danced, nerves tingled in perpetual holiday.

B. was lying on his camp-cot, wrapped like an Eskimo in a blanket which hid all but his nose and eyes.

“Hello, Cummings,” he said smiling. “There’s a man here who is a friend of Vanderbilt and knew Cézanne.”

I gazed somewhat critically at B. There was nothing particularly insane about him, unless it was his enthusiastic excitement, which might almost be attributed to my jack-in-the-box manner of arriving. He said: “There are people here who speak English, Russian, Arabian. There are the finest people here! Did you go to Gré? I fought rats all night there. Huge ones. They tried to eat me. And from Gré to Paris? I had three gendarmes all the way to keep me from escaping, and they all fell asleep.”

I began to be afraid that I was asleep myself. “Please be frank,” I begged. “Strictly _entre nous_: am I dreaming, or is this a bug-house?”

B. laughed, and said: “I thought so when I arrived two days ago. When I came in sight of the place a lot of girls waved from the window and yelled at me. I no sooner got inside than a queer looking duck whom I took to be a nut came rushing up to me and cried: ‘Too late for soup!’—This is Campe de Triage de la Ferté Macé, Orne, France, and all these fine people were arrested as spies. Only two or three of them can speak a word of French, and that’s _soupe!_”

I said, “My God, I thought Marseilles was somewhere on the Mediterranean Ocean, and that this was a _gendarmerie_.”

“But this is M-a-c-é. It’s a little mean town, where everybody snickers and sneers at you if they see you’re a prisoner. They did at me.”

“Do you mean to say we’re _espions_ too?”

“Of course!” B. said enthusiastically. “Thank God! And in to stay. Every time I think of the _section sanitaire_, and A. and his thugs, and the whole rotten red-taped Croix Rouge, I have to laugh. Cummings, I tell you this is the finest place on earth!”

A vision of the Chef de la section Sanitaire Ving-et-Un passed through my mind. The doughy face. Imitation-English-officer swagger. Large calves, squeaking puttees. The daily lecture: “I doughno what’s th’matter with you fellers. You look like nice boys. Well-edjucated. But you’re so dirty in your habits. You boys are always kickin’ because I don’t put you on a car together. I’m ashamed to do it, that’s why. I doughtwanta give this section a black eye. We gotta show these lousy Frenchmen what Americans are. We gotta show we’re superior to ’em. Those bastards doughno what a bath means. And you fellers are always hangin’ ’round, talkin’ with them dirty frog-eaters that does the cookin’ and the dirty work ’round here. How d’you boys expect me to give you a chance? I’d like to put you fellers on a car, I wanta see you boys happy. But I don’t dare to, that’s why. If you want me to send you out, you gotta shave and look neat, and _keep away from them dirty Frenchmen_. We Americans are over here to learn them lousy bastards something.”

I laughed for sheer joy.

A terrific tumult interrupted my mirth. “_Par ici!_”—“Get out of the way you damn Polak!”—“M’sieu, M’sieu!”—“Over here!”—“_Mais non!_”—“_Gott-ver-dummer!_” I turned in terror to see my _paillasse_ in the clutches of four men who were apparently rending it in as many directions.

One was a clean-shaven youngish man with lively eyes, alert and muscular, whom I identified as the man who had called me “Johnny.” He had hold of a corner of the mattress and was pulling against the possessor of the opposite corner: an incoherent personage enveloped in a buffoonery of amazing rags and patches, with a shabby head on which excited wisps of dirty hair stood upright in excitement, and the tall, ludicrous, extraordinary, almost noble figure of a dancing bear. A third corner of the _paillasse_ was rudely grasped by a six-foot combination of yellow hair, red hooligan face, and sky-blue trousers; assisted by the undersized tasseled mucker in Belgian uniform, with a pimply rogue’s mug and unlimited impertinence of diction, who had awakened me by demanding if I wanted coffee. Albeit completely dazed by the uncouth vocal fracas, I realised in some manner that these hostile forces were contending, not for the possession of the mattress, but merely for the privilege of presenting the mattress to myself.

Before I could offer any advice on this delicate topic, a childish voice cried emphatically beside my ear: “Put the mattress here! What are you trying to do? There’s no use destroy-ing a mat-tress!”—at the same moment the mattress rushed with cobalt strides in my direction, propelled by the successful efforts of the Belgian uniform and the hooligan visage, the clean-shaven man and the incoherent bear still desperately clutching their respective corners; and upon its arrival was seized with surprising strength by the owner of the child’s voice—a fluffy little gnome-shaped man with a sensitive face which had suffered much—and indignantly deposited beside B.’s bed in a space mysteriously cleared for its reception. The gnome immediately kneeled upon it and fell to carefully smoothing certain creases caused by the recent conflict, exclaiming slowly syllable by syllable: “Mon Dieu. Now, that’s better, you mustn’t do things like that.” The clean-shaven man regarded him loftily with folded arms, while the tassel and the trousers victoriously inquired if I had a cigarette?—and upon receiving one apiece (also the gnome, and the clean-shaven man, who accepted his with some dignity) sat down without much ado on B.’s bed—which groaned ominously in protest—and hungrily fired questions at me. The bear meanwhile, looking as if nothing had happened, adjusted his ruffled costume with a satisfied air and (calmly gazing into the distance) began with singularly delicate fingers to stuff a stunted and ancient pipe with what appeared to be a mixture of wood and manure.

I was still answering questions, when a gnarled voice suddenly threatened, over our head: “Broom? You. Everybody. Clean. _Surveillant_ says. Not me, no?”—I started, expecting to see a parrot.

It was the silhouette.

A vulture-like figure stood before me, a demoralised broom clenched in one claw or fist: it had lean legs cased in shabby trousers, muscular shoulders covered with a rough shirt open at the neck, knotted arms, and a coarse insane face crammed beneath the visor of a cap. The face consisted of a rapid nose, droopy moustache, ferocious watery small eyes, a pugnacious chin, and sunken cheeks hideously smiling. There was something in the ensemble at once brutal and ridiculous, vigorous and pathetic.

Again I had not time to speak; for the hooligan in azure trousers hurled his butt at the bear’s feet, exclaiming: “There’s another for you, Polak!”—jumped from the bed, seized the broom, and poured upon the vulture a torrent of _Gott-ver-dummers_, to which the latter replied copiously and in kind. Then the red face bent within a few inches of my own, and for the first time I saw that it had recently been young—“I say I do your sweep for you” it translated pleasantly. I thanked it; and the vulture, exclaiming: “Good. Good. Not me. _Surveillant._ Harree does it for everybody. Hee, hee”—rushed off, followed by Harree and the tassel. Out of the corner of my eye I watched the tall, ludicrous, extraordinary, almost proud figure of the bear stoop with quiet dignity, the musical fingers close with a singular delicacy upon the moist indescribable eighth-of-an-inch of tobacco.

I did not know that this was a Delectable Mountain….

The clean-shaven man (who appeared to have been completely won over by his smoke), and the fluffy gnome, who had completed the arrangement of my _paillasse_, now entered into conversation with myself and B.; the clean-shaven one seating himself in Harree’s stead, the gnome declining (on the grounds that the bed was already sufficiently loaded) to occupy the place left vacant by the tassel’s exit, and leaning against the drab, sweating, poisonous wall. He managed, however, to call our attention to the shelf at B.’s head which he himself had constructed, and promised me a similar luxury _toute de suite_. He was a Russian, and had a wife and _gosse_ in Paris. “My name is Monsieur Au-guste, at your service”—and his gentle pale eyes sparkled. The clean-shaven talked distinct and absolutely perfect English. His name was Fritz. He was a Norwegian, a stoker on a ship. “You mustn’t mind that feller that wanted you to sweep. He’s crazy. They call him John the Baigneur. He used to be the bathman. Now he’s _Maître de Chambre_. They wanted me to take it—I said, ‘F—— it, I don’t want it.’ Let him have it. That’s no kind of a job, everyone complaining and on top of you morning till night. ‘Let them that wants the job take it’ I said. That crazy Dutchman’s been here for two years. They told him to get out and he wouldn’t, he was too fond of the booze” (I jumped at the slang) “and the girls. They took it away from John and give it to that little Ree-shar feller, that doctor. That was a swell job he had, _baigneur_, too. All the bloody liquor you can drink and a girl every time you want one. He ain’t never had a girl in his life, that Ree-shar feller.” His laughter was hard, clear, cynical. “That Pompom, the little Belgian feller was just here, he’s a great one for the girls. He and Harree. Always getting _cabinot_. I got it twice myself since I been here.”

All this time the enormous room was filling gradually with dirty light. In the further end six figures were brooming furiously, yelling to each other in the dust like demons. A seventh, Harree, was loping to and fro splashing water from a pail and enveloping everything and everybody in a ponderous and blasphemous fog of _Gott-ver-dummers_. Along three sides (with the exception, that is, of the nearer end, which boasted the sole door) were laid, with their lengths at right angles to the wall, at intervals of three or four feet, something like forty _paillasses_. On each, with half a dozen exceptions (where the occupants had not yet finished their coffee or were on duty for the _corvée_) lay the headless body of a man smothered in its blanket, only the boots showing.

The demons were working towards our end of the room. Harree had got his broom and was assisting. Nearer and nearer they came; converging, they united their separate heaps of filth in a loudly stinking single mound at the door. Brooms were stacked against the wall in the corner. The men strolled back to their mattresses.

Monsieur Auguste, whose French had not been able to keep pace with Fritz’s English, saw his chance, and proposed “now that the Room is all clean, let us go take a little walk, the three of us.” Fritz understood perfectly, and rose, remarking as he fingered his immaculate chin “Well, I guess I’ll take a shave before the bloody _planton_ comes”—and Monsieur Auguste, B., and I started down the room.

It was in shape oblong, about 80 feet by 40, unmistakably ecclesiastical in feeling; two rows of wooden pillars, spaced at intervals of fifteen feet, rose to a vaulted ceiling 25 or 30 feet above the floor. As you stood with your back to the door, and faced down the room, you had in the near right-hand corner (where the brooms stood) six pails of urine. On the right-hand long wall, a little beyond the angle of this corner, a few boards, tacked together in any fashion to make a two-sided screen four feet in height, marked the position of a _cabinet d’aisance_, composed of a small coverless tin pail identical with the other six, and a board of the usual design which could be placed on the pail or not as desired. The wooden floor in the neighborhood of the booth and pails was of a dark colour, obviously owing to the continual overflow of their contents.

The right-hand long wall contained something like ten large windows, of which the first was commanded by the somewhat primitive cabinet. There were no other windows in the remaining walls; or they had been carefully rendered useless. In spite of this fact, the inhabitants had contrived a couple of peep-holes—one in the door-end and one in the left-hand long wall; the former commanding the gate by which I had entered, the latter a portion of the street by which I had reached the gate. The blocking of all windows on three sides had an obvious significance: _les hommes_ were not supposed to see anything which went on in the world without; _les hommes_ might, however, look their fill on a little washing-shed, on a corner of what seemed to be another wing of the building, and on a bleak lifeless abject landscape of scrubby woods beyond—which constituted the view from the ten windows on the right. The authorities had miscalculated a little in one respect: a merest fraction of the barb-wire pen which began at the corner of the above-mentioned building was visible from these windows, which windows (I was told) were consequently thronged by fighting men at the time of the girl’s promenade. A _planton_, I was also told, made it his business, by keeping _les femmes_ out of this corner of their _cour_ at the point of the bayonet to deprive them of the sight of their admirers. In addition, it was dry bread or _cabinot_ for any of either sex who were caught communicating with each other. Moreover the promenades of the men and the women occurred at roughly speaking the same hour, so that a man or woman who remained upstairs on the chance of getting a smile or a wave from his or her girl or lover lost the promenade thereby….

We had in succession gazed from the windows, crossed the end of the room, and started down the other side, Monsieur Auguste marching between us—when suddenly B. exclaimed in English “Good morning! How are you today?” And I looked across Monsieur Auguste, anticipating another Harree or at least a Fritz. What was my surprise to see a spare majestic figure of manifest refinement, immaculately apparelled in a crisp albeit collarless shirt, carefully mended trousers in which the remains of a crease still lingered, a threadbare but perfectly fitting swallow-tail coat, and newly varnished (if somewhat ancient) shoes. Indeed for the first time since my arrival at La Ferté I was confronted by a perfect type: the apotheosis of injured nobility, the humiliated victim of perfectly unfortunate circumstances, the utterly respectable gentleman who had seen better days. There was about him, moreover, something irretrievably English, nay even pathetically Victorian—it was as if a page of Dickens was shaking my friend’s hand. “Count Bragard, I want you to meet my friend Cummings”—he saluted me in modulated and courteous accents of indisputable culture, gracefully extending his pale hand. “I have heard a great deal about you from B., and wanted very much to meet you. It is a pleasure to find a friend of my friend B., someone congenial and intelligent in contrast to these swine”—he indicated the room with a gesture of complete contempt. “I see you were strolling. Let us take a turn.” Monsieur Auguste said tactfully, “I’ll see you soon, friends,” and left us with an affectionate shake of the hand and a sidelong glance of jealousy and mistrust at B.’s respectable friend.

“You’re looking pretty well today, Count Bragard,” B. said amiably.

“I do well enough,” the Count answered. “It is a frightful strain—you of course realise that—for anyone who has been accustomed to the decencies, let alone the luxuries, of life. This filth”—he pronounced the word with indescribable bitterness—“this herding of men like cattle—they treat us no better than pigs here. The fellows drop their dung in the very room where they sleep. What is one to expect of a place like this? _Ce n’est pas une existence_”—his French was glib and faultless.

“I was telling my friend that you knew Cézanne,” said B. “Being an artist he was naturally much interested.”

Count Bragard stopped in astonishment, and withdrew his hands slowly from the tails of his coat. “Is it possible!” he exclaimed, in great agitation. “What an astonishing coincidence! I am myself a painter. You perhaps noticed this badge”—he indicated a button attached to his left lapel, and I bent and read the words: On War Service. “I always wear it,” he said with a smile of faultless sorrow, and resumed his walk. “They don’t know what it means here, but I wear it all the same. I was a special representative for The London Sphere at the front in this war. I did the trenches and all that sort of thing. They paid me well; I got fifteen pounds a week. And why not? I am an R.A. My specialty was horses. I painted the finest horses in England, among them the King’s own entry in the last Derby. Do you know London?” We said no. “If you are ever in London, go to the” (I forget the name) “Hotel—one of the best in town. It has a beautiful large bar, exquisitely furnished in the very best taste. Anyone will tell you where to find the ——. It has one of my paintings over the bar: “Straight-jacket” (or some such name) “the Marquis of ——’s horse, who won last time the race was run. I was in America in 1910. You know Cornelius Vanderbilt perhaps? I painted some of his horses. We were the best of friends, Vanderbilt and I. I got handsome prices, you understand, three, five, six thousand pounds. When I left, he gave me this card—I have it here somewhere—” he again stopped, sought in his breastpocket a moment, and produced a visiting card. On one side I read the name “Cornelius Vanderbilt”—on the other, in bold handwriting—“to my very dear friend Count F.A. de Bragard” and a date. “He hated to have me go.”

I was walking in a dream.

“Have you your sketch-books and paints with you? What a pity. I am always intending to send to England for mine, but you know—one can’t paint in a place like this. It is impossible—all this dirt and these filthy people—it stinks! Ugh!”

I forced myself to say: “How did you happen to come here?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “How indeed, you may well ask! I cannot tell you. It must have been some hideous mistake. As soon as I got here I spoke to the Directeur and to the Surveillant. The Directeur said he knew nothing about it; the Surveillant told me confidentially that it was a mistake on the part of the French government; that I would be out directly. He’s not such a bad sort. So I am waiting; every day I expect orders from the English government for my release. The whole thing is preposterous. I wrote to the Embassy and told them so. As soon as I set foot outside this place, I shall sue the French government for ten thousand pounds for the loss of time it has occasioned me. Imagine it—I had contracts with countless members of The Lords—and the war came. Then I was sent to the front by The Sphere—and here I am, every day costing me dear, rotting away in this horrible place. The time I have wasted here has already cost me a fortune.”

He paused directly in front of the door and spoke with solemnity: “A man might as well be dead.”

Scarcely had the words passed his lips when I almost jumped out of my skin, for directly before us on the other side of the wall arose the very noise which announced to Scrooge the approach of Marley’s ghost—a dismal clanking and rattling of chains. Had Marley’s transparent figure walked straight through the wall and up to the Dickensian character at my side, I would have been less surprised than I was by what actually happened.

The doors opened with an uncanny bang and in the bang stood a fragile minute queer figure, remotely suggesting an old man. The chief characteristic of the apparition was a certain disagreeable nudity which resulted from its complete lack of all the accepted appurtenances and prerogatives of old age. Its little stooping body, helpless and brittle, bore with extraordinary difficulty a head of absurd largeness, yet which moved on the fleshless neck with a horrible agility. Dull eyes sat in the clean-shaven wrinkles of a face neatly hopeless. At the knees a pair of hands hung, infantile in their smallness. In the loose mouth a tiny cigarette had perched and was solemnly smoking itself.

Suddenly the figure darted at me with a spiderlike entirety.

I felt myself lost.

A voice said mechanically from the vicinity of my feet: “_Il vous faut prendre la douche_”—I stared stupidly. The spectre was poised before me; its averted eyes contemplated the window. “Take your bath,” it added as an afterthought, in English—“Come with me.” It turned suddenly. It hurried to the doorway. I followed. Its rapid deadly doll-like hands shut and skillfully locked the doors in a twinkling. “Come,” its voice said.

It hurried before me down two dirty flights of narrow mutilated stairs. It turned left, and passed through an open door.

I found myself in the wet sunless air of morning.

To the right it hurried, following the wall of the building. I pursued it mechanically. At the corner, which I had seen from the window upstairs, the barbed-wire fence eight feet in height began. The thing paused, produced a key and unlocked a gate. The first three or four feet of wire swung inward. He entered. I after him.

In a flash the gate was locked behind me, and I was following along a wall at right angles to the first. I strode after the thing. A moment before I had been walking in a free world: now I was again a prisoner. The sky was still over me, the clammy morning caressed me; but walls of wire and stone told me that my instant of freedom had departed. I was in fact traversing a lane no wider than the gate; on my left, barbed-wire separated me from the famous _cour_ in which _les femmes se promenent_—a rectangle about 50 feet deep and 200 long, with a stone wall at the further end of it and otherwise surrounded by wire;—on my right, grey sameness of stone, the _ennui_ of the regular and the perpendicular, the ponderous ferocity of silence….

I had taken automatically some six or eight steps in pursuit of the fleeing spectre when, right over my head, the grey stone curdled with a female darkness; the hard and the angular softening in a putrescent explosion of thick wriggling laughter. I started, looked up, and encountered a window stuffed with four savage fragments of crowding Face: four livid, shaggy disks focussing hungrily; four pair of uncouth eyes rapidly smouldering; eight lips shaking in a toothless and viscous titter. Suddenly above and behind these terrors rose a single horror of beauty—a crisp vital head, a young ivory, actual face, a night of firm, alive, icy hair, a white, large, frightful smile.

… The thing was crying two or three paces in front of me: “Come!” The heads had vanished as by magic.

I dived forward; followed through a little door in the wall into a room about fifteen feet square, occupied by a small stove, a pile of wood, and a ladder. He plunged through another even smaller door, into a bleak rectangular place, where I was confronted on the left by a large tin bath and on the right by ten wooden tubs, each about a yard in diameter, set in a row against the wall. “Undress” commanded the spectre. I did so. “Go into the first one.” I climbed into the tub. “You shall pull the string,” the spectre said, hurriedly throwing his cigarette into a corner. I stared upward, and discovered a string dangling from a kind of reservoir over my head: I pulled: and was saluted by a stabbing crash of icy water. I leaped from the tub. “Here is your napkin. Make dry yourself”—he handed me a piece of cloth a little bigger than a handkerchief. “Hurree.” I donned my clothes, wet and shivering and altogether miserable. “Good. Come now!” I followed him, through the room with the stove, into the barbed-wire lane. A hoarse shout rose from the yard—which was filled with women, girls, children, and a baby or two. I thought I recognised one of the four terrors who had saluted me from the window, in a girl of 18 with a soiled slobby body huddling beneath its dingy dress; her bony shoulders stifled in a shawl upon which excremental hair limply spouted; a huge empty mouth; and a red nose, sticking between the bluish cheeks that shook with spasms of coughing. Just inside the wire a figure reminiscent of Gré, gun on shoulder, revolver on hip, moved monotonously.

The apparition hurried me through the gate, and along the wall into the building, where instead of mounting the stairs he pointed down a long, gloomy corridor with a square of light at the end of it, saying rapidly, “Go to the promenade”—and vanished.

With the laughter of the Five still ringing in my ears, and no very clear conception of the meaning of existence, I stumbled down the corridor; bumping squarely into a beefy figure with a bull’s neck and the familiar revolver who demanded furiously: “What are you doing there? _Nom de Dieu!_”—“_Pardon. Les douches_,” I answered, quelled by the collision.—He demanded in wrathy French “Who took you to the douches?”—For a moment I was at a complete loss—then Fritz’s remark about the new _baigneur_ flashed through my mind: “Ree-shar” I answered calmly.—The bull snorted satisfactorily. “Get into the _cour_ and hurry up about it” he ordered.—“_C’est par là?_” I inquired politely.—He stared at me contemptuously without answering; so I took it upon myself to use the nearest door, hoping that he would have the decency not to shoot me. I had no sooner crossed the threshold when I found myself once more in the welcome air; and not ten paces away I espied B. peacefully lounging, with some thirty others, within a _cour_ about one quarter the size of the women’s. I marched up to a little dingy gate in the barbed-wire fence, and was hunting for the latch (as no padlock was in evidence) when a scared voice cried loudly “_Qu’est ce que vous faites là!_” and I found myself stupidly looking into a rifle. B., Fritz, Harree, Pompom, Monsieur Auguste, The Bear, and the last but not least Count de Bragard immediately informed the trembling _planton_ that I was a _Nouveau_ who had just returned from the _douches_ to which I had been escorted by Monsieur Reeshar, and that I should be admitted to the _cour_ by all means. The cautious watcher of the skies was not, however, to be fooled by any such fol-de-rol and stood his ground. Fortunately at this point the beefy _planton_ yelled from the doorway “Let him in,” and I was accordingly let in, to the gratification of my friends, and against the better judgment of the guardian of the _cour_, who muttered something about having more than enough to do already.

I had not been mistaken as to the size of the men’s yard: it was certainly not more than twenty yards deep and fifteen wide. By the distinctness with which the shouts of _les femmes_ reached my ears I perceived that the two _cours_ adjoined. They were separated by a stone wall ten feet in height, which I had already remarked (while _en route_ to _les douches_) as forming one end of the _cour des femmes_. The men’s _cour_ had another stone wall slightly higher than the first, and which ran parallel to it; the two remaining sides, which were property ends, were made by the familiar barbed-wire.

The furniture of the _cour_ was simple: in the middle of the further end, a wooden sentry-box was placed just inside the wire; a curious contrivance, which I discovered to be a sister to the booth upstairs, graced the wall on the left which separated the two _cours_, while further up on this wall a horizontal iron bar projected from the stone at a height of seven feet and was supported at its other end by a wooden post, the idea apparently being to give the prisoners a little taste of gymnastics; a minute wooden shed filled the right upper corner and served secondarily as a very partial shelter for the men and primarily as a stable for an extraordinary water-wagon, composed of a wooden barrel on two wheels with shafts which would not possibly accommodate anything larger than a diminutive donkey (but in which I myself was to walk not infrequently, as it proved); parallel to the second stone wall, but at a safe distance from it, stretched a couple of iron girders serving as a barbarously cold seat for any unfortunate who could not remain on his feet the entire time; on the ground close by the shed lay amusement devices numbers two and three—a huge iron cannon-ball and the six-foot iron axle of a departed wagon—for testing the strength of the prisoners and beguiling any time which might lie heavily on their hands after they had regaled themselves with the horizontal bar; and finally, a dozen mangy apple-trees, fighting for their very lives in the angry soil, proclaimed to all the world that the _cour_ itself was in reality a _verger_.

“Les pommiers sont pleins de pommes; Allons au verger, Simone….”

A description of the _cour_ would be incomplete without an enumeration of the manifold duties of the _planton_ in charge, which were as follows: to prevent the men from using the horizontal bar, except for chinning, since if you swung yourself upon it you could look over the wall into the women’s _cour_; to see that no one threw anything over the wall into said _cour_; to dodge the cannon-ball which had a mysterious habit of taking advantage of the slope of the ground and bounding along at a prodigious rate of speed straight for the sentry-box; to watch closely anyone who inhabited the _cabinet d’aisance_, lest he should make use of it to vault over the wall; to see that no one stood on the girders, for a similar reason; to keep watch over anyone who entered the shed; to see that everyone urinated properly against the wall in the general vicinity of the cabinet; to protect the apple-trees into which well-aimed pieces of wood and stone were continually flying and dislodging the sacred fruit; to mind that no one entered or exited by the gate in the upper fence without authority; to report any signs, words, tokens, or other immoralities exchanged by prisoners with girls sitting in the windows of the women’s wing (it was from one of these windows that I had recently received my salutation), also names of said girls, it being forbidden to exhibit any part of the female person at a window while the males were on promenade; to quell all fights and especially to prevent people from using the wagon axle as a weapon of defense or offense; and last, to keep an eye on the sweeper when he and his wheelbarrow made use of a secondary gate situated in the fence at the further end, not far from the sentry-box, to dump themselves.

Having acquainted me with the various _défendus_ which limited the activities of a man on promenade, my friends proceeded to enliven the otherwise somewhat tedious morning by shattering one after another all rules and regulations. Fritz, having chinned himself fifteen times, suddenly appeared astride of the bar, evoking a reprimand; Pompom bowled the _planton_ with the cannon-ball, apologising in profuse and vile French; Harree the Hollander tossed the wagon-axle lightly half the length of the _cour_, missing The Bear by an inch; The Bear bided his time and cleverly hurled a large stick into one of the holy trees, bringing to the ground a withered apple for which at least twenty people fought for several minutes; and so on. The most open gestures were indulged in for the benefit of several girls who had braved the official wrath and were enjoying the morning at their windows. The girders were used as a race-track. The beams supporting the shed-roof were shinned. The water-wagon was dislocated from its proper position. The cabinet and urinal were misused. The gate was continually admitting and emitting persons who said they were thirsty, and must get a drink at a tub of water which stood around the corner. A letter was surreptitiously thrown over the wall into the _cour des femmes_.

The _planton_ who suffered all these indignities was a solemn youth with wise eyes situated very far apart in a mealy expressionless ellipse of face, to the lower end of which clung a piece of down, exactly like a feather sticking to an egg. The rest of him was fairly normal with the exception of his hands, which were not mates; the left being considerably larger, and made of wood.

I was at first somewhat startled by this eccentricity; but soon learned that with the exception of two or three, who formed the _Surveillant’s_ permanent staff and of whom the beefy one was a shining example, all the _plantons_ were supposed to be unhealthy; they were indeed the disabled whom _le gouvernement français_ sent from time to time to La Ferté and similar institutions for a little outing, and as soon as they had recovered their health under these salubrious influences they were shipped back to do their bit for world-safety, democracy, freedom, etc., in the trenches. I also learned that, of all the ways of attaining _cabinot_, by far the simplest was to apply to a _planton_, particularly to a permanent _planton_, say the beefy one (who was reputed to be peculiarly touchy on this point) the term _embusqué_. This method never failed. To its efficacy many of the men and more of the girls (by whom the _plantons_, owing to their habit of taking advantage of the weaker sex at every opportunity, were even more despised) attested by not infrequent spasms of consumptive coughing, which could be plainly heard from the further end of one _cour_ to the other.

In a little over two hours I learned an astonishing lot about La Ferté itself: it was a co-educational receiving station whither were sent from various parts of France (a) males suspected of espionage and (b) females of a well-known type found in the zone of the armies. It was pointed out to me that the task of finding such members of the human race was _pas difficile:_ in the case of the men, any foreigner would do provided his country was neutral (e.g. Holland); as for the girls, inasmuch as the armies of the Allies were continually retreating, the _zone des armées_ (particularly in the case of Belgium) was always including new cities, whose _petites femmes_ became automatically subject to arrest. It was not to be supposed that all the women of La Ferté were _putains_: there were a large number of respectable women, the wives of prisoners, who met their husbands at specified times on the floor below the men’s quarters, whither man and woman were duly and separately conducted by _plantons_. In this case no charges had been preferred against the women; they were voluntary prisoners, who had preferred to freedom this living in proximity to their husbands. Many of them had children; some babies. In addition there were certain _femmes honnêtes_ whose nationality, as in the case of the men, had cost them their liberty; Marguerite the washerwoman, for example, was a German.

La Ferté Macé was not properly speaking a prison, but a Porte or Detention Camp: that is to say, persons sent to it were held for a Commission, composed of an official, a lawyer, and a captain of _gendarmes_, which inspected the Camp and passed upon each case in turn for the purpose of determining the guiltiness of the suspected party. If the latter were found guilty by the Commission, he or she was sent off to a regular prison camp for the duration of the war; if not guilty, he or she was (in theory) set free. The Commission came to La Ferté once every three months. It should be added that there were prisoners who had passed the Commission, two, three, four, and even five times, without any appreciable result; there were _prisonnierès_ who had remained in La Ferté a year, and even eighteen months.

The authorities at La Ferté consisted of the _Directeur_, or general overlord, the _Surveillant_, who had the _plantons_ (orderlies) under him and was responsible to the _Directeur_ for the administration of the camp, and the _Gestionnaire_ (who kept the accounts). As assistant, the _Surveillant_ had a mail clerk who acted as translator on occasion. Twice a week the camp was visited by a regular French army doctor (_médecin major_) who was supposed to prescribe in severe cases and to give the women venereal inspection at regular intervals. The daily routine of attending to minor ailments and injuries was in the hands of Monsieur Ree-shar (Richard), who knew probably less about medicine than any man living and was an ordinary prisoner like all of us, but whose impeccable conduct merited cosy quarters. A sweeper was appointed from time to time by the _Surveillant_, acting for the _Directeur_, from the inhabitants of La Ferté; as was also a cook’s assistant. The regular cook was a fixture, and a Boche like the other fixtures, Marguerite and Richard. This fact might seem curious were it not that the manner, appearance and actions of the _Directeur_ himself proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was all which the term Boche could possibly imply.

“He’s a son-of-a-bitch,” B. said heartily. “They took me up to him when I came two days ago. As soon as he saw me he bellowed: ‘_Imbécile et inchrétien!_’; then he called me a great lot of other things, including Shame of my country, Traitor to the sacred cause of Liberty, Contemptible coward and Vile sneaking spy. When he got all through I said ‘I don’t understand French.’ You should have seen him then.”

Separation of the sexes was enforced, not, it is true, with success, but with a commendable ferocity. The punishments for both men and girls were dry bread and _cabinot_.

“What on earth is _cabinot?_” I demanded.

There were various _cabinots_: each sex had its regular _cabinot_, and there were certain extra ones. B. knew all about them from Harree and Pompom, who spent nearly all their time in the _cabinot_. They were rooms about nine feet square and six feet high. There was no light and no floor, and the ground (three were on the ground floor) was always wet and often a good many inches under water. The occupant on entering was searched for tobacco, deprived of his or her mattress and blanket, and invited to sleep on the ground on some planks. One didn’t need to write a letter to a member of the opposite sex to get _cabinot_, or even to call a _planton embusqué_—there was a woman, a foreigner, who, instead of sending a letter to her embassy through the bureau (where all letters were read by the mail clerk to make sure that they said nothing disagreeable about the authorities or conditions of La Ferté) tried to smuggle it outside, and got twenty-eight days of _cabinot_. She had previously written three times, handing the letters to the _Surveillant_, as per regulations, and had received no reply. Fritz, who had no idea why he was arrested and was crazy to get in touch with his embassy, had likewise written several letters, taking the utmost care to state the facts only and always handing them in; but he had never received a word in return. The obvious inference was that letters from a foreigner to his embassy were duly accepted by the _Surveillant_ (Warden), but rarely, if ever, left La Ferté.

B. and I were conversing merrily à propos the God-sent miracle of our escape from Vingt-et-Un, when a benign-faced personage of about fifty with sparse greyish hair and a Benjamin Franklin expression appeared on the other side of the fence, from the direction of the door through which I had passed after bumping the beefy bull. “_Planton_” it cried heavily to the wooden-handed one, “Two men to go get water.” Harree and Pompom were already at the gate with the archaic water-wagon, the former pushing from behind and the latter in the shafts. The guardian of the _cour_ walked up and opened the gate for them, after ascertaining that another _planton_ was waiting at the corner of the building to escort them on their mission. A little way from the _cour_, the stone wall (which formed one of its boundaries and which ran parallel to the other stone wall dividing the two _cours_) met the prison building; and here was a huge double door, twice padlocked, through which the waterseekers passed on to the street. There was a sort of hydrant up the street a few hundred yards, I was told. The cook (Benjamin F., that is) required from three to six wagonfuls of water twice a day, and in reward for the labour involved in its capture was in the habit of giving a cup of coffee to the captors. I resolved that I would seek water at the earliest opportunity.

Harree and Pompom had completed their third and final trip and returned from the kitchen, smacking their lips and wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands. I was gazing airily into the muddy sky, when a roar issued from the door-way:

“_Montez les hommes!_” or “Send the men up!”

It was the beefy-necked. We filed from the _cour_, through the door, past a little window which I was told belonged to the kitchen, down the clammy corridor, up the three flights of stairs, to the door of The Enormous Room. Padlocks were unlocked, chains rattled, and the door thrown open. We entered. The Enormous Room received us in silence. The door was slammed and locked behind us by the _planton_, whom we could hear descending the gnarled and filthy stairs.

In the course of a half-hour, which time, as I was informed, intervened between the just-ended morning promenade and the noon meal which was the next thing on the program, I gleaned considerable information concerning the daily schedule of La Ferté. A typical day was divided by planton-cries as follows:

“_Café_,” “_Corvée d’eau_,” “_Nettoyage de Chambre_,” “_Montez les Hommes_,” “_A la soupe les hommes_.”

The most terrible cry of all, and which was not included in the regular program of planton-cries, consisted of the words:

“_Aux douches les hommes_”—when all, sick, dead and dying not excepted, descended to the baths. Although _les douches_ came only once in 15 days, such was the terror they inspired that it was necessary for the _planton_ to hunt under mattresses for people who would have preferred death itself.

Upon remarking that _corvée d’eau_ must be excessively disagreeable, I was informed that it had its bright side, viz., that in going to and from the sewer one could easily exchange a furtive signal with the women who always took pains to be at their windows at that moment. Influenced perhaps by this, Harree and Pompom were in the habit of doing their friends’ _corvées_ for a consideration. The girls, I was further instructed, had their _corvée_ (as well as their meals) just after the men; and the miraculous stupidity of the _plantons_ had been known to result in the coincidence of the two.

At this point somebody asked me how I had enjoyed my shower?

I was replying in terms of unmeasured opprobrium when I was interrupted by that gruesome clanking and rattling which announced the opening of the door. A moment later it was thrown wide, and the beefy-neck stood in the doorway, a huge bunch of keys in his paw, and shouted:

“_A la soupe les hommes._”

The cry was lost in a tremendous confusion, a reckless thither-and-hithering of humanity, everyone trying to be at the door, spoon in hand, before his neighbour. B. said calmly, extracting his own spoon from beneath his mattress on which we were seated: “They’ll give you yours downstairs and when you get it you want to hide it or it’ll be pinched”—and in company with Monsieur Bragard, who had refused the morning promenade, and whose gentility would not permit him to hurry when it was a question of such a low craving as hunger, we joined the dancing roaring throng at the door. I was not too famished myself to be unimpressed by the instantaneous change which had come over The Enormous Room’s occupants. Never did Circe herself cast upon men so bestial an enchantment. Among these faces convulsed with utter animalism I scarcely recognised my various acquaintances. The transformation produced by the _planton’s_ shout was not merely amazing; it was uncanny, and not a little thrilling. These eyes bubbling with lust, obscene grins sprouting from contorted lips, bodies unclenching and clenching in unctuous gestures of complete savagery, convinced me by a certain insane beauty. Before the arbiter of their destinies some thirty creatures, hideous and authentic, poised, cohering in a sole chaos of desire; a fluent and numerous cluster of vital inhumanity. As I contemplated this ferocious and uncouth miracle, this beautiful manifestation of the sinister alchemy of hunger, I felt that the last vestige of individualism was about utterly to disappear, wholly abolished in a gambolling and wallowing throb.

The beefy-neck bellowed:

“Are you all here?”

A shrill roar of language answered. He looked contemptuously around him, upon the thirty clamouring faces each of which wanted to eat him—puttees, revolver and all. Then he cried:

“_Allez, descendez._”

Squirming, jostling, fighting, roaring, we poured slowly through the doorway. Ridiculously. Horribly. I felt like a glorious microbe in huge absurd din irrevocably swathed. B. was beside me. A little ahead Monsieur Auguste’s voice protested. Count Bragard brought up the rear.

When we reached the corridor nearly all the breath was knocked out of me. The corridor being wider than the stairs allowed me to inhale and look around. B. was yelling in my ear:

“Look at the Hollanders and the Belgians! They’re always ahead when it comes to food!”

Sure enough: John the Bathman, Harree and Pompom were leading this extraordinary procession. Fritz was right behind them, however, and pressing the leaders hard. I heard Monsieur Auguste crying in his child’s voice:

“If every-body goes slow-er we will ar-rive soon-er. You mustn’t act like that!”

Then suddenly the roar ceased. The mêlée integrated. We were marching in orderly ranks. B. said:

“The Surveillant!”

At the end of the corridor, opposite the kitchen window, there was a flight of stairs. On the third stair from the bottom stood (teetering a little slowly back and forth, his lean hands joined behind him and twitching regularly, a kepi tilted forward on his cadaverous head so that its visor almost hid the weak eyes sunkenly peering from under droopy eyebrows, his pompous rooster-like body immaculately attired in a shiny uniform, his puttees sleeked, his cross polished)—The Fencer. There was a renovated look about him which made me laugh. Also his pose was ludicrously suggestive of Napoleon reviewing the armies of France.

Our column’s first rank moved by him. I expected it to continue ahead through the door and into the open air, as I had myself done in going from _les douches_ to _le cour;_ but it turned a sharp right and then sharp left, and I perceived a short hall, almost hidden by the stairs. In a moment I had passed The Fencer myself and entered the hall. In another moment I was in a room, pretty nearly square, filled with rows of pillars. On turning into the hall the column had come almost to a standstill. I saw that the reason for this slowing-down lay in the fact that on entering the room every man in turn passed a table and received a piece of bread from the chef. When B. and I came opposite the table the dispenser of bread smiled pleasantly and nodded to B., then selected a large hunk and pushed it rapidly into B.’s hands with an air of doing something which he shouldn’t. B. introduced me, whereupon the smile and selection was repeated.

“He thinks I’m a German,” B. explained in a whisper, “and that you are a German too.” Then aloud, to the cook: “My friend here needs a spoon. He just got here this morning and they haven’t given him one.”