undislodged. Clung like a monkey to central bars. Clung like an angel to
a harp. Calling pleasantly in a high boyish voice: "O Jack, give me a
cigarette."

A handsome face, dark, Latin smile, musical fingers strong.

I waded suddenly through a group of gendarmes (they stood around me
watching with a disagreeable curiosity my reaction to this). Strode
fiercely to the window.

Trillions of hands.

Quadrillions of itching fingers.

The angel-monkey received the package of cigarettes politely,
disappearing with it into howling darkness. I heard his high boy's voice
distributing cigarettes. Then he leaped into sight, poised gracefully
against two central bars, saying "Thank you, Jack, good boy" ... "Thanks,
_merci_, _gracias_ ..." a deafening din of gratitude reeked from within.

"Put your baggage in here," quoth an angry voice. "No, you will not take
anything but one blanket in your cell, understand." In French. Evidently
the head of the house speaking. I obeyed. A corpulent soldier importantly
lead me to my cell. My cell is two doors away from the monkey-angel, on
the same side. The high boy-voice, centralized in a torrent-like halo of
stretchings, followed my back. The head himself unlocked a lock. I
marched coldly in. The fat soldier locked and chained my door. Four feet
went away. I felt in my pocket, finding four cigarettes. I am sorry I did
not give these also to the monkey--to the angel. Lifted my eyes and saw
my own harp.