The Enormous Room E. E. Cummings (snow like ashes TXT) 📖

speechless, his eyes starting out of his head. As nearly as I could make out, Jean had had sixty francs when he arrived, which money he had given to a planton upon his arrival, the planton having told Jean that he would deposit the money with the Gestionnaire in Jean’s name (Jean could not write). The planton in question who looked particularly innocent denied this charge upon my explaining Jean’s version; while the Gestionnaire puffed and grumbled, disclaiming any connection with the alleged theft and protesting sonorously that he was hearing about Jean’s sixty francs for the first time. The Gestionnaire shook his thick piggish finger at the book wherein all financial transactions were to be found⁠—from the year one to the present year, month, day, hour and minute (or words to that effect). “Mais c’est pas là” he kept repeating stupidly. The Surveillant was uh-ahing at a great rate and attempting to pacify Jean in French. I myself was somewhat fearful for Jean’s sanity and highly indignant at the planton. The matter ended with the planton’s being sent about his business; simultaneously with Jean’s dismissal to the cour, whither I accompanied him. My best efforts to comfort Jean in this matter were quite futile. Like a child who has been unjustly punished he was inconsolable. Great tears welled in his eyes. He kept repeating “sees-tee franc⁠—planton voleur,” and⁠—absolutely like a child who in anguish calls itself by the name which has been given itself by grownups⁠—“steel Jean munee.” To no avail I called the planton a menteur, a voleur, a fils d’un chien, and various other names. Jean felt the wrong itself too keenly to be interested in my denunciation of the mere agent through whom injustice had (as it happened) been consummated.

But⁠—again like an inconsolable child who weeps his heart out when no human comfort avails and wakes the next day without an apparent trace of the recent grief⁠—Jean le Nègre, in the course of the next twenty-four hours, had completely recovered his normal buoyancy of spirit. The sees-tee franc were gone. A wrong had been done. But that was yesterday. Today⁠—

And he wandered up and down, joking, laughing, singing:

“après la guerre finit.”⁠ ⁠…

In the cour Jean was the target of all female eyes. Handkerchiefs were waved to him; phrases of the most amorous nature greeted his every appearance. To all these demonstrations he by no means turned a deaf ear; on the contrary. Jean was irrevocably vain. He boasted of having been enormously popular with the girls wherever he went and of having never disdained their admiration. In Paris one day⁠—(and thus it happened that we discovered why le gouvernement français had arrested Jean)⁠—

One afternoon, having rien à faire, and being flush (owing to his success as a thief, of which vocation he made a great deal, adding as many ciphers to the amounts as fancy dictated) Jean happened to cast his eyes in a store window where were displayed all possible appurtenances for the militaire. Vanity was rooted deeply in Jean’s soul. The uniform of an English captain met his eyes. Without a moment’s hesitation he entered the store, bought the entire uniform, including leather puttees and belt (of the latter purchase he was especially proud), and departed. The next store contained a display of medals of all descriptions. It struck Jean at once that a uniform would be incomplete without medals. He entered this store, bought one of every decoration⁠—not forgetting the Colonial, nor yet the Belgian Cross (which on account of its size and colour particularly appealed to him)⁠—and went to his room. There he adjusted the decorations on the chest of his blouse, donned the uniform, and sallied importantly forth to capture Paris.

Everywhere he met with success. He was frantically pursued by women of all stations from les putains to les princesses. The police salaamed to him. His arm was wearied with the returning of innumerable salutes. So far did his medals carry him that, although on one occasion a gendarme dared to arrest him for beating-in the head of a fellow English officer (who being a mere lieutenant, should not have objected to Captain Jean’s stealing the affections of his lady), the sergeant of police before whom Jean was arraigned on a charge of attempting to kill refused to even hear the evidence, and dismissed the case with profuse apologies to the heroic Captain. “‘Le gouvernement français, Monsieur, extends to you, through me, its profound apology for the insult which your honour has received.’ Ils sont des cochons, les français,” said Jean, and laughed throughout his entire body.

Having had the most blue-blooded ladies of the capital cooing upon his heroic chest, having completely beaten up, with the full support of the law, whosoever of lesser rank attempted to cross his path or refused him the salute⁠—having had “great fun” saluting generals on les grands boulevards and being in turn saluted (“tous les générals, tous, salute me, Jean have more medals”), and this state of affairs having lasted for about three months⁠—Jean began to be very bored (me très ennuyé). A fit of temper (“me très faché”) arising from this ennui led to a rixe with the police, in consequence of which (Jean, though outnumbered three to one, having almost killed one of his assailants), our hero was a second time arrested. This time the authorities went so far as to ask the heroic captain to what branch of the English army he was at present attached; to which Jean first replied “parle pas français, moi,” and immediately after announced that he was a Lord of the Admiralty, that he had committed robberies in Paris to the tune