I had laid a piece of my piece of chocolate on the window-sill. As I lay
on my back a little silhouette came along the sill and ate that piece of
a piece, taking something like four minutes to do so. He then looked at
me, I then smiled at him, and we parted, each happier than before.

My _cellule_ was cool, and I fell asleep easily.

(Thinking of Paris.)

... Awakened by a conversation whose vibrations I clearly felt through
the left wall:

Turnkey-creature: "What?"

A moldly moldering molish voice, suggesting putrifying tracts and
orifices, answers with a cob-webbish patience so far beyond despair as to
be indescribable: "_La soupe_."

"Well, the soup, I just gave it to you, Monsieur Savy."

"Must have a little something else. My money is _chez le directeur_.
Please take my money which is _chez le directeur_ and give me anything
else."

"All right, the next time I come to see you to-day I'll bring you a
salad, a nice salad, Monsieur."

"Thank you, Monsieur," the voice moldered.