IT was spring before I managed to escape from the penitentiary, and then only by a stroke of fortune.  A telegram from Carl informed me one day that there was a vacancy "upstairs"; he said he would send me the fare back if I decided to accept.  I telegraphed back at once and as soon as the dough arrived I beat it to the station.  Not a word to M. le Proviseur or anyone.  French leave, as they say.

      I went immediately to the hotel at 1 bis, where Carl was staying.  He came to the door stark naked.  It was his night off and there was a cunt in the bed as usual.  "Don't mind her," he says, "she's asleep.  If you need a lay you can take her on.  She's not bad."  He pulls the covers back to show me what she looks like.  However, I wasn't thinking about a lay right away.  I was too excited.  I was like a man who has just escaped from jail.  I just wanted to see and hear things.  Coming from the station it was like a long dream.  I felt as though I had been away for years.

      It was not until I had sat down and taken a good look at the room that I realized I was back again in Paris.  It was Carl's room and no mistake about it.  Like a squirrel cage and shithouse combined.  There was hardly room on the table for the portable machine he used.  It was always like that, whether he had a cunt with him or not.  Always a dictionary lying open on a gilt-edged volume of Faust, always a tobacco pouch, a beret, a bottle of vin rouge, letters, manuscripts, old newspapers, watercolours, teapot, dirty socks, toothpicks, Kruschen Salts, condoms, etc.  In the bidet were orange peels and the remnants of a ham sandwich.

      "There's some food in the closet," he said.  "Help yourself!  I was just going to give myself an injection."

      I found the sandwich he was talking about and a piece of cheese that he had nibbled at beside it.  While he sat on the edge of the bed, dosing himself with his argyrol, I put away the sandwich and cheese with the aid of a little wine.

      "I liked that letter you sent me about Goethe," he said, wiping his prick with a dirty pair of drawers.

      "I'll show you the answer to it in a minute - I'm putting it in my book.  The trouble with you is that you're not a German.  You have to be German to understand Goethe.  Shit, I'm not going to explain it to you now.  I've put it all in the book.... By the way, I've got a new cunt now - not this one - this one's a half-wit.  At least, I had her until a few days ago.  I'm not sure whether she'll come back or not.  She was living with me all the time you were away.  The other day her parents came and took her away.  They said she was only fifteen.  Can you beat that?  They scared the shit out of me too...."

      I began to laugh.  It was like Carl to get himself into a mess like that.

      "What are you laughing for?" he said.  "I may go to prison for it.  Luckily, I didn't knock her up.  And that's funny, too, because she never took care of herself properly.  But do you know what saved me?  So I think, at least.  It was Faust.  Yeah!  Her old man happened to see it lying on the table.  He asked me if I understood German.  One thing led to another and before I knew it he was looking through my books.  Fortunately I happened to have the Shakespeare open too.  That impressed him like hell.  He said I was evidently a very serious guy."

      "What about the girl - what did she have to say?"

      "She was frightened to death.  You see, she had a little watch with her when she came; in the excitement we couldn't find the watch, and the mother insisted that the watch be found or she'd call the police.  You see how things are here.  I turned the whole place upside down - but I couldn't find the goddamned watch.  The mother was furious.  I liked her too, in spite of everything.  She was even better-looking than the daughter.  Here - I'll show you a letter I started to write her.  I'm in love with her...."

      "With the mother?"

      "Sure.  Why not?  If I had seen the mother first I'd never have looked at the daughter.  How did I know she was only fifteen?  You don't ask a cunt how old she is before you lay her, do you?"

      "Joe, there's something funny about this.  You're not shitting me, are you?"

      "Am I shitting you?  Here - look at this!"  And he shows me the watercolours the girl had made - cute little things - a knife and a loaf of bread, the table and teapot, everything running uphill.  "She was in love with me," he said.  "She was just like a child.  I had to tell her when to brush her teeth and how to put her hat on.  Here - look at the lollipops!  I used to buy her a few lollipops every day - she liked them."

      "Well, what did she do when her parents came to take her away?  Didn't she put up a row?"

      "She cried a little, that's all.  What could she do?  She's under age.... I had to promise never to see her again, never to write her either.  That's what I'm waiting to see now - whether she'll stay away or not.  She was a virgin when she came here.  The thing is, how long will she be able to go without a lay?  She couldn't get enough of it when she was here.  She almost wore me out."

      By this time the one in bed had come to and was rubbing her eyes.  She looked pretty young to me, too.  Not bad looking but dumb as hell.  Wanted to know right away what we were talking about.

      "She lives here in the hotel," said Carl.  "On the third floor.  Do you want to go to her room?  I'll fix it up for you."

      I didn't know whether I wanted to or not, but when I saw Carl mushing it up with her again I decided I did want to.  I asked her first if she was too tired.  Useless question.  A whore is never too tired to open her legs.  Some of them can fall asleep while you diddle them.  Anyway, it was decided we would go down to her room.  Like that I wouldn't have to pay the patron for the night.

      In the morning I rented a room overlooking the little park down below where the sandwich-board men always came to eat their lunch.  At noon I called for Carl to have breakfast with him.  He and Van Norden had developed a new habit in my absence - they went to the Coupole for breakfast every day.  "Why the Coupole?" I asked.  "Why the Coupole?" says Carl.  "Because the Coupole serves porridge at all hours and porridge makes you shit." - "I see," said I.

      So it's just like it used to be again.  The three of us walking back and forth to work.  Petty dissensions, petty rivalries.  Van Norden still bellyaching about his cunts and about washing the dirt out of his belly.  Only now he's found a new diversion.  He's found that it's less annoying to masturbate.  I was amazed when he broke the news to me.  I didn't think it possible for a guy like that to find any pleasure in jerking himself off.  I was still more amazed when he explained to me how he goes about it.  He had "invented" a new stunt, so he put it.  "You take an apple," he says, "and you bore out the core.  Then you rub some cold cream on the inside so as it doesn't melt too fast.  Try it some time!  It'll drive you crazy at first.  Anyway, it's cheap and you don't have to waste much time."

      "By the way," he says, switching the subject, "that friend of yours, Fillmore, he's in the hospital.  I think he's nuts.  Anyway, that's what his girl told me.  He took on a French girl, you know, while you were away.  They used to fight like hell.  She's a big, healthy bitch - wild like.  I wouldn't mind giving her a tumble, but I'm afraid she'd claw the eyes out of me.  He was always going around with his face and hands scratched up.  She looks bunged up too once in a while - or she used to.  You know how these French cunts are - when they love they lose their minds."

      Evidently things had happened while I was away.  I was sorry to hear about Fillmore.  He had been damned good to me.  When I left Van Norden I jumped a bus and went straight to the hospital.

      They hadn't decided yet whether he was completely off his base or not, I suppose, for I found him upstairs in a private room, enjoying all the liberties of the regular patients.  He had just come from the bath when I arrived.  When he caught sight of me he burst into tears.  "It's all over," he says immediately.  "They say I'm crazy - and I may have syphilis too.  They say I have delusions of grandeur."  He fell over onto the bed and wept quietly.  After he had wept a while he lifted his head up and smiled - just like a bird coming out of a snooze.  "Why do they put me in such an expensive room?" he said.  "Why don't they put me in the ward - or in the bughouse?  I can't afford to pay for this.  I'm down to my last five hundred dollars."

      "That's why they're keeping you here," I said.  "They'll transfer you quickly enough when your money runs out.  Don't worry."

      My words must have impressed him, for I had no sooner finished than he handed me his watch and chain, his wallet, his fraternity pin, etc.  "Hold on to them," he said.  "These bastards'll rob me of everything I've got."  And then suddenly he began to laugh, one of those weird, mirthless laughs which makes you believe a guy's goofy whether he is or not.  "I'll know you'll think I'm crazy," he said, "but I want to atone for what I did.  I want to get married.  You see, I didn't know I had the clap.  I gave her the clap and then I knocked her up.  I told the doctor I don't care what happens to me, but I want him to let me get married first.  He keeps telling me to wait until I get better - but I know I'm never going to get better.  This is the end."

      I couldn't help laughing myself, hearing him talk that way.  I couldn't understand what had come over him.  Anyway, I had to promise him to see the girl and explain things to her.  He wanted me to stick by her, comfort her.  Said he could trust me, etc.  I said yes to everything in order to soothe him.  He didn't seem exactly nuts to me - just caved-in like.  Typical Anglo-Saxon crisis.  An eruption of morals.  I was rather curious to see the girl, to get the lowdown on the whole thing.

      The next day I looked her up.  She was living in the Latin Quarter.  As soon as she realized who I was she became exceedingly cordial.  Ginette she called herself.  Rather big, raw-boned, healthy, peasant type with a front tooth half eaten away.  Full of vitality and a kind of crazy fire in her eyes.  The first thing she did was to weep.  Then, seeing that I was an old friend of her Jo-Jo - that was how she called him - she ran downstairs and brought back a couple of bottles of white wine.  I was to stay and have dinner with her - she insisted on it.  As she drank she became by turns gay and maudlin.  I didn't have to ask her any questions - she went on like a self- winding machine.  The thing that worried her principally was - would he get his job back when he was released from the hospital?  She said her parents were well off, but they were displeased with her.  They didn't approve of her wild ways.  They didn't approve of him particularly - he had no manners, and he was an American.  She begged me to assure her that he would get his job back, which I did without hesitation.  And then she begged me to know if she could believe what he said - that he was going to marry her.  Because now, with a child under her belt, and a dose of clap besides, she was in no position to strike a match - with a Frenchman anyway.  That was clear, wasn't it?  Of course, I assured her.  It was all clear as hell to me - except how in Christ's name Fillmore had ever fallen for her.  However, one thing at a time.  It was my duty now to comfort her, and so I just filled her up with a lot of baloney, told her everything would turn out all right and that I would stand godfather to the child, etc.  Then suddenly it struck me as strange that she should have the child at all - especially as it was likely to be born blind.  I told her that as tactfully as I could.  "It doesn't make any difference," she said, "I want a child by him."

      "Even if it's blind?" I asked.

      "Mon Dieu, ne dites pas ça!" she groaned.  "Ne dites pas ça!"

      Just the same, I felt it was my duty to say it.  She got hysterical and began to weep like a walrus, poured out more wine.  In a few moments she was laughing boisterously.  She was laughing to think how they used to fight when they got in bed.  "He liked me to fight with him," she said.  "He was a brute."

      As we sat down to eat, a friend of hers walked in - a little tart who lived at the end of the hall.  Ginette immediately sent me down to get some more wine.  When I came back they had evidently had a good talk.  Her friend, Yvette, worked in the police department.  A sort of stool pigeon, as far as I could gather.  At least that was what she was trying to make me believe.  It was fairly obvious that she was just a little whore.  But she had an obsession about the police and their doings.  Throughout the meal they were urging me to accompany them to a bal musette.  They wanted to have a gay time - it was so lonely for Ginette with Jo-Jo in the hospital.  I told them I had to work, but that on my night off I'd come back and take them out.  I made it clear too that I had no dough to spend on them.  Ginette, who was really thunderstruck to hear this, pretended that that didn't matter in the least.  In fact, just to show what a good sport she was, she insisted on driving me to work in a cab.  She was doing it because I was a friend of Jo-Jo's.  And therefore I was a friend of hers.  "And also," thought I to myself, "if anything goes wrong with your Jo-Jo you'll come to me on the double-quick.  Then you'll see what a friend I can be!"  I was as nice as pie to her.  In fact, when we got out of the cab in front of the office, I permitted them to persuade me into having a final Pernod together.  Yvette wanted to know if she couldn't call for me after work.  She had a lot of things to tell me in confidence, she said.  But I managed to refuse without hurting her feelings.  Unfortunately I did unbend sufficiently to give her my address.

      Unfortunately, I say.  As a matter of fact, I'm rather glad of it when I think back on it.  Because the very next day things began to happen.  The very next day, before I had even gotten out of bed, the two of them called on me.  Jo-Jo had been removed from the hospital - they had incarcerated him in a little chateau in the country, just a few miles out of Paris.  The chateau, they called it.  A polite way of saying "the bughouse."  They wanted me to get dressed immediately and go with them.  They were in a panic.

      Perhaps I might have gone alone - but I just couldn't make up my mind to go with these two.  I asked them to wait for me downstairs while I got dressed, thinking that it would give me time to invent some excuse for not going.  But they wouldn't leave the room.  They sat there and watched me wash and dress, just as if it were an everyday affair.  In the midst of it, Carl popped in.  I gave him the situation briefly in English, and then we hatched up an excuse that I had some important work to do.  However, to smooth things over, we got some wine in and we began to amuse them by showing them a book of dirty drawings.  Yvette had already lost all desire to go to the chateau.  She and Carl were getting along famously.  When it came time to go Carl decided to accompany them to the chateau.  He thought it would be funny to see Fillmore walking around with a lot of nuts.  He wanted to see what it was like in the nuthouse.  So off they went, somewhat pickled, and in the best of humour.

      All the time that Fillmore was at the chateau I never once went to see him.  It wasn't necessary, because Ginette visited him regularly and gave me all the news.  They had hopes of bringing him around in a few months, so she said.  They thought it was alcoholic poisoning - nothing more.  Of course, he had a dose - but that wasn't difficult to remedy.  So far as they could see, he didn't have syphilis.  That was something.  So, to begin with, they used the stomach pump on him.  They cleaned his system out thoroughly.  He was so weak for a while that he couldn't get out of bed.  He was depressed, too.  He said he didn't want to be cured - he wanted to die.  And he kept repeating this nonsense so insistently that finally they grew alarmed.  I suppose it wouldn't have been a very good recommendation if he had committed suicide.  Anyway, they began to give him mental treatment.  And in between times they pulled out his teeth, more and more of them, until he didn't have a tooth left in his head.  He was supposed to feel fine after that, yet strangely he didn't.  He became more despondent than ever.  And then his hair began to fall out.  Finally he developed a paranoid streak - began to accuse them of all sorts of things, demanded to know by what right he was being detained, what he had done to warrant being locked up, etc.  After a terrible fit of despondency he would suddenly become energetic and threaten to blow up the place if they didn't release him.  And to make it worse, as far as Ginette was concerned, he had gotten all over his notion of marrying her.  He told her straight up and down that he had no intention of marrying her, and that if she was crazy enough to go and have a child then she could support it herself.

      The doctors interpreted all this as a good sign.  They said he was coming round.  Ginette, of course, thought he was crazier than ever, but she was paying for him to be released so that she could take him to the country where it would be quiet and peaceful and where he would come to his right senses.  Meanwhile her parents had come to Paris on a visit and had even gone so far as to visit the future son-in-law at the chateau.  In their canny way they had probably figured it out that it would be better for their daughter to have a crazy husband than no husband at all.  The father thought he could find something for Fillmore to do on the farm.  He said that Fillmore wasn't such a bad chap at all.  When he learned from Ginette that Fillmore's parents had money he became even more indulgent, more understanding.

      The thing was working itself out nicely all around.  Ginette returned to the provinces for a while with her parents.  Yvette was coming regularly to the hotel to see Carl.  She thought he was the editor of the paper.  And little by little she became more confidential.  When she got good and tight one day, she informed us that Ginette had never been anything but a whore, that Ginette was a bloodsucker, that Ginette never had been pregnant and was not pregnant now.  About the other accusations we hadn't much doubt, Carl and I, but about not being pregnant, that we weren't so sure of.

      "How did she get such a big stomach, then?" asked Carl.

      Yvette laughed.  "Maybe she uses a bicycle pump," she said.  "No, seriously," she added, "the stomach comes from drink.  She drinks like a fish, Ginette.  When she comes back from the country, you will see, she will be blown up still more.  Her father is a drunkard.  Ginette is a drunkard.  Maybe she has the clap, yes - but she is not pregnant."

      "But why does she want to marry him?  Is she really in love with him?"

      "Love?  Pfooh!  She has no heart, Ginette.  She wants someone to look after her.  No Frenchman would ever marry her - she has a police record.  No, she wants him because he's too stupid to find out about her.  Her parents don't want her anymore - she's a disgrace to them.  But if she can get married to a rich American, then everything will be all right.... You think maybe she loves him a little, eh?  You don't know her.  When they were living together at the hotel, she had men coming to her room while he was at work.  She said he didn't give her enough spending money.  He was stingy.  That fur she wore - she told him her parents had given it to her, didn't she?  Innocent fool!  Why, I've seen her bring a man back to the hotel right while he was there.  She brought the man to the floor below.  I saw it with my own eyes.  And what a man!  An old derelict.  He couldn't get an erection!"

      If Fillmore, when he was released from the chateau, had returned to Paris, perhaps I might have tipped him off about his Ginette.  While he was still under observation I didn't think it well to upset him by poisoning his mind with Yvette's slanders.  As things turned out, he went directly from the chateau to the home of Ginette's parents.  There, despite himself, he was inveigled into making public his engagement.  The banns were published in the local papers and a reception was given to the friends of the family.  Fillmore took advantage of the situation to indulge in all sorts of escapades.  Though he knew quite well what he was doing he pretended to be still a little daffy.  He would borrow his father-in-law's car, for example, and tear about the countryside all by himself; if he saw a town that he liked he would plank himself down and have a good time until Ginette came searching for him.  Sometimes the father-in-law and he would go off together - on a fishing trip, presumably - and nothing would be heard of them for days.  He became exasperatingly capricious and exacting.  I suppose he figured he might as well get what he could out of it.

      When he returned to Paris with Ginette he had a complete new wardrobe and a pocketful of dough.  He looked cheerful and healthy, and had a fine coat of tan.  He looked sound as a berry to me.  But as soon as we had gotten away from Ginette he opened up.  His job was gone and his money had all run out.  In a month or so they were to be married.  Meanwhile the parents were supplying the dough.  "Once they've got me properly in their clutches," he said, "I'll be nothing but a slave to them.  The father thinks he's going to open up a stationary store for me.  Ginette will handle the customers, take in the money, etc., while I sit in the back of the store and write - or something.  Can you picture me sitting in the back of a stationary store for the rest of my life?  Ginette thinks it's an excellent idea.  She likes to handle money.  I'd rather go back to the chateau than submit to such a scheme."

      For the time being, of course, he was pretending that everything was hunky-dory.  I tried to persuade him to go back to America but he wouldn't hear of that.  He said he wasn't going to be driven out of France by a lot of ignorant peasants.  He had an idea that he would slip out of sight for a while and then take up quarters in some outlying section of the city where he'd not be likely to stumble upon her.  But we soon decided that that was impossible: you can't hide away in France as you can in America.

      "You could go to Belgium for a while," I suggested.

      "But what'll I do for money?" he said promptly.  "You can't get a job in these goddamned countries."

      "Why don't you marry her and get a divorce, then?" I asked.

      "And meanwhile she'll be dropping a kid.  Who's going to take care of the kid, eh?"

      "How do you know she's going to have a kid?" I said, determined now that the moment had come to spill the beans.

      "How do I know?" he said.  He didn't quite seem to know what I was insinuating.

      I gave him an inkling of what Yvette had said.  He listened to me in complete bewilderment.  Finally he interrupted me.  "It's no use going on with that," he said.  "I know she's going to have a kid, all right.  I've felt it kicking around inside.  Yvette's a dirty little slut.  You see, I didn't want to tell you, but up until the time I went to the hospital I was shelling out for Yvette too.  Then when the crash came I couldn't do any more for her.  I figured out that I had done enough for the both of them.... I made up my mind to look after myself first.  That made Yvette sore.  She told Ginette that she was going to get even with me.... No, I wish it were true, what she said.  Then I could get out of this thing more easily.  Now I'm in a trap.  I've promised to marry her and I'll have to go through with it.  After that I don't know what'll happen to me.  They've got me by the balls now."

      Since he had taken a room in the same hotel with me I was obliged to see them frequently, whether I wanted to or not.  Almost every evening I had dinner with them, preceded, of course, by a few Pernods.  All through the meal they quarrelled noisily.  It was embarrassing because I had sometimes to take one side and sometimes the other.  One Sunday afternoon, for example, after we had had lunch together, we repaired to a café on the corner of the Boulevard Edgar-Quinet.  Things had gone unusually well this time.  We were sitting inside at a little table, one alongside the other, our backs to a mirror.  Ginette must have been passionate or something for she had suddenly gotten into a sentimental mood and was fondling him and kissing him in front of everybody, as the French do so naturally.  They had just come out of a long embrace when Fillmore said something about her parents which she interpreted as an insult.  Immediately he cheeks flushed with anger.  We tried to mollify her by telling her that she had misunderstood the remark and then, under his breath, Fillmore said something to me in English - something about giving her a little soft soap.  That was enough to set her completely off the handle.  She said we were making fun of her.  I said something sharp to her which angered her still more and then Fillmore tried to put in a word.  "You're too quick-tempered," he said, and he tried to pat her on the cheek.  But she, thinking that he had raised his hand to slap her face, she gave him a sound crack in the jaw with that big peasant hand of hers.  For a moment he was stunned.  He hadn't expected a wallop like that, and it stung.  I saw his face go white and the next moment he raised himself from the bench and with the palm of his hand he gave her such a crack that she almost fell off her seat.  "There! that'll teach you how to behave!" he said - in his broken French.  For a moment there was a dead silence.  Then, like a storm breaking, she picked up the cognac glass in front of her and hurled it at him with all her might.  It smashed against the mirror behind us.  Fillmore had already grabbed her by the arm, but with her free hand she grabbed the coffee glass and smashed it on the floor.  She was squirming around like a maniac.  It was all we could do to hold her.  Meanwhile, of course, the patron had come running in and ordered us to beat it.  "Loafers!" he called us.  "Yes, loafers; that's it!" screamed Ginette.  "Dirty foreigners!  Thugs!  Gangsters!  Striking a pregnant woman!"  We were getting black looks all around.  A poor Frenchwoman with two American toughs.  Gangsters.  I was wondering how the hell we'd ever get out of the place without a fight.  Fillmore, by this time, was as silent as a clam.  Ginette was bolting it through the door, leaving us to face the music.  As she sailed out she turned back with fist upraised and shouted: "I'll pay you back for this, you brute!  You'll see!  No foreigner can treat a decent Frenchwoman like that!  Ah, no!  Not like that!"

      Hearing this the patron, who had now been paid for his drinks and his broken glasses, felt it encumbent to show his gallantry toward a splendid representative of French motherhood such as Ginette, and so, without more ado, he spat at our feet and shoved us out of the door.  "Shit on you, you dirty loafers!" he said, or some such pleasantry.

      Once in the street and nobody throwing things after us, I began to see the funny side of it.  I would be an excellent idea, I thought to myself, if the whole thing were properly aired in court.  The whole thing!  With Yvette's little stories as a side dish.  After all, the French have a sense of humour.  Perhaps the judge, when he heard Fillmore's side of the story, would absolve him from marriage.

      Meanwhile Ginette was standing across the street brandishing her fist and yelling at the top of her lungs.  People were stopping to listen in, to take sides, as they do in street brawls.  Fillmore didn't know what to do - whether to walk away from her, or to go over to her and try to pacify her.  He was standing in the middle of the street with his arms outstretched, trying to get a word in edgewise.  And Ginette still yelling "Gangster!  Brute!  Tu verras salaud!" and other complimentary things.  Finally Fillmore made a move toward her and she, probably thinking that he was going to give her another good cuff, took it on a trot down the street.  Fillmore came back to where I was standing and said: "Come on, let's follow her quietly."  We started off with a thin crowd of stragglers behind us.  Every once in a while she turned back toward us and brandished her fist.  We made no attempt to catch up with her, just followed her leisurely down the street to see what she would do.  Finally she slowed up her pace and we crossed over to the other side of the street.  She was quiet now.  We kept walking behind her, getting closer and closer.  There were only about a dozen people behind us now - the others had lost interest.  When we got near the corner she suddenly stopped and waited for us to approach.  "Let me do the talking," said Fillmore, "I know how to handle her."

      The tears were streaming down her face as we came up to her.  Myself, I didn't know what to expect of her.  I was somewhat surprised therefore when Fillmore walked up to her and said in an aggrieved voice: "Was that a nice thing to do?  Why did you act that way?"  Whereupon she threw her arms around his neck and began to weep like a child, calling him her little this and her little that.  Then she turned to me imploringly.  "You saw how he struck me," she said.  "Is that any way to behave toward a woman?"  I was on the point of saying yes when Fillmore took her by the arm and started leading her off.  "No more of that," he said.  "If you start again I'll crack you right here in the street."

      I thought it was going to start up all over again.  She had fire in her eyes.  But evidently she was a bit cowed, too, for it subsided quickly.  However, as she sat down at the café she said quietly and grimly that he needn't think it was going to be forgotten so quickly; he'd hear more about it later on ... perhaps tonight.

      And sure enough she kept her word.  When I met him the next day his face and hands were all scratched up.  Seems she had waited until he got to bed and then, without a word, she had gone to the wardrobe and, dumping all his things out on the floor, she took them one by one and tore them to ribbons.  As this had happened a number of times before, and as she had always sown them up afterwards, he hadn't protested very much.  And that made her angrier than ever.  What she wanted was to get her nails into him, and she did, to the best of her ability.  Being pregnant she had a certain advantage over him.

      Poor Fillmore!  It was no laughing matter.  She had him terrorized.  If he threatened to run away she retorted by a threat to kill him.  And she said it as if she meant it.  "If you go to America," she said, "I'll follow you!  You won't get away from me.  A French girl always knows how to get vengeance."  And the next moment she would be coaxing him to be "reasonable", to be "sage", etc.  Life would be so nice once they had the stationary store.  He wouldn't have to do a stroke of work.  She would do everything.  He could stay in back of the store and write - or whatever he wanted to do.

      It went on like this, back and forth, a seesaw, for a few weeks or so.  I was avoiding them as much as possible, sick of the affair and disgusted with the both of them.  Then one fine summer's day, just as I was passing the Credit Lyonnais, who comes marching down the steps but Fillmore.  I greeted him warmly, feeling rather guilty because I had dodged him for so long.  I asked him, with more than ordinary curiosity, how things were going.  He answered me rather vaguely and with a note of despair in his voice.

      "I've just gotten permission to go to the bank," he said, in a peculiar, broken, abject sort of way.  "I've got about half an hour, no more.  She keeps tabs on me."  And he grasped my arm as if to hurry me away from the spot.

      We were walking down toward the Rue de Rivoli.  It was a beautiful day, warm, clear, sunny - one of those days when Paris is at its best.  A mild pleasant breeze blowing, just enough to take that stagnant odour out of your nostrils.  Fillmore was without a hat.  Outwardly he looked the picture of health - like the average American tourist who slouches along with money jingling in his pockets.

      "I don't know what to do anymore," he said quietly.  "You've got to do something for me.  I'm helpless.  I can't get a grip on myself.  If I could only get away from her for a little while perhaps I'd come round all right.  But she won't let me out of her sight.  I just got permission to run to the bank - I had to draw some money.  I'll walk around with you a bit, then I must hurry back - she'll have lunch waiting for me."

      I listened to him quietly, thinking to myself that he certainly did need someone to pull him out of the hole he was in.  He had completely caved in, there wasn't a speck of courage left in him.  He was just like a child - like a child who is beaten every day and doesn't know anymore how to behave, except to cower and cringe.  As we turned under the colonnade of the Rue de Rivoli he burst into a long diatribe against France.  He was fed up with the French.  "I used to rave about them," he said, "but that was all literature.  I know them now.... I know what they're really like.  They're cruel and mercenary.  At first it seems wonderful, because you have a feeling of being free.  After a while it palls on you.  Underneath it's all dead; there's no feeling, no sympathy, no friendship.  They're selfish to the core.  The most selfish people on earth!  They think of nothing but money, money, money.  And so goddamned respectable, so bourgeois!  That's what drives me nuts.  When I see her mending my shirts I could club her.  Always mending, mending.  Saving, saving.  Faut faires des economies!  That's all I hear her say all day long.  You hear it everywhere.  Sois raisonnable, mon cheri!  Sois raisonnable!  I don't want to be reasonable and logical.  I hate it!  I want to bust loose, I want to enjoy myself.  I want to do something.  I don't want to sit in a café and talk all day long.  Jesus, we've got our faults - but we've got enthusiasm.  It's better to make mistakes than not do anything.  I'd rather be a bum in America than to be sitting pretty here.  Maybe it's because I'm a Yankee.  I was born in New England and I belong there, I guess.  You can't become a European overnight.  There's something in your blood that makes you different.  It's the climate - and everything.  We see things with different eyes.  We can't make ourselves over, however much we admire the French.  We're Americans and we've got to remain Americans.  Sure, I hate all those puritanical buggers back home - I hate 'em with all my guts.  But I'm one of them myself.  I don't belong here.  I'm sick of it."

      All along the arcade he went on like this.  I wasn't saying a word.  I let him spill it all out - it was good for him to get it off his chest.  Just the same, I was thinking how strange it was that this same guy, had it been a year ago, would have been beating his chest like a gorilla and saying: "What a marvellous day!  What a country!  What a people!"  And if an American had happened along and said one word against France Fillmore would have flattened his nose.  He would have died for France - a year ago.  I never saw a man who was so infatuated with a country, who was so happy under a foreign sky.  It wasn't natural.  When he said France it meant wine, women, money in the pocket, easy come, easy go.  It meant being a bad boy, being on holiday.  And then, when he had had his fling, when the tent top blew off and he had a good look at the sky, he saw that it wasn't just a circus, but an arena, just like everywhere.  And a damned grim one.  I often used to think, when I heard him rave about glorious France, about liberty and all that crap, what it would have sounded like to a French workman, could he have understood Fillmore's words.  No wonder they think we're all crazy.  We are crazy to them.  We're just a pack of children.  Senile idiots.  What we call life is a five-and-ten-cent store romance.  That enthusiasm underneath - what is it?  That cheap optimism which turns the stomach of any ordinary European?  It's illusion.  No, illusion's too good a word for it.  Illusion means something.  No, it's not that - it's delusion.  It's sheer delusion, that's what.  We're like a herd of wild horses with blinders over our eyes.  On the rampage.  Stampede.  Over the precipice.  Bango!  Anything that nourishes violence and confusion.  On!  On!  No matter where.  And foaming at the lips all the while.  Shouting Hallelujah! Hallelujah!  Why?  God knows.  It's in the blood.  It's the climate.  It's a lot of things.  It's the end, too.  We're pulling the whole world down about our ears.  We don't know why.  It's our destiny.  The rest is plain shit....

      At the Palais Royal I suggested that we stop and have a drink.  He hesitated a moment.  I saw that he was worrying about her, about the lunch, about the bawling out he'd get.

      "For Christ's sake," I said, "forget about her for a while.  I'm going to order something to drink and I want you to drink it.  Don't worry, I'm going to get you out of this fucking mess."  I ordered two stiff whiskies.

      When he saw the whiskies coming he smiled at me just like a child again.

      "Down it!" I said, "and let's have another.  This is going to do you good.  I don't care what the doctor says - this time it'll be all right.  Come on, down with it!"

      He put it down all right and while the garçon disappeared to fetch another round he looked at me with brimming eyes, as though I were the last friend in the world.  His lips were twitching a bit, too.  There was something he wanted to say to me and he didn't quite know how to begin.  I looked at him easily, as though ignoring the appeal and, shoving the saucers aside, I leaned over on my elbow and I said to him earnestly: "Look here, Fillmore, what is it you'd really like to do?  Tell me!"

      With that the tears gushed up and he blurted out: "I'd like to be home with my people.  I'd like to hear English spoken."  The tears were streaming down his face.  He made no effort to brush them away.  He just let everything gush forth.  Jesus, I thought to myself, that's fine to have a release like that.  Fine to be a complete coward at least once in your life.  To let go that way.  Great!  Great!  It did me so much good to see him break down that way that I felt as though I could solve any problem.  I felt courageous and resolute.  I had a thousand ideas in my head at once.

      "Listen," I said, bending still closer to him, "if you mean what you said why don't you do it ... why don't you go?  Do you know what I would do, if I were in your shoes?  I'd go today.  Yes, by Jesus, I mean it ... I'd go right away, without even saying goodbye to her.  As a matter of fact that's the only way you can go - she'd never let you say goodbye.  You know that."

      The garçon came with the whiskies.  I saw him reach forward with a desperate eagerness and raise the glass to his lips.  I saw a glint of hope in his eyes - far-off, wild, desperate.  He probably saw himself swimming across the Atlantic.  To me it looked easy, simple as rolling off a log.  The whole thing was working itself out rapidly in my mind.  I knew just what each step would be.  Clear as a bell, I was.

      "Whose money is that in the bank?" I asked.  "Is it her father's or is it yours?"

      "It's mine!" he exclaimed.  "My mother sent it to me.  I don't want any of her goddamned money."

      "That's swell," I said.  "Listen, suppose we hop a cab and go back there.  Draw out every cent.  Then we'll go to the British Consulate and get a visa.  You're going to hop the train this afternoon for London.  From London you'll take the first boat to America.  I'm saying that because then you won't be worried about her trailing you.  She'll never suspect that you went via London.  If she goes searching for you she'll naturally go to Le Harvre first, or Cherbourg.... And here's another thing - you're not going back to get your things.  You're going to leave everything here.  Let her keep them.  What that French mind of hers she'll never dream that you scooted off without bag or baggage.  It's incredible.  A Frenchman would never dream of doing a thing like that ... unless he was as cracked as you are."

      "You're right!" he exclaimed.  "I never thought of that.  Besides, you might send them to me later on - if she'll surrender them!  But that doesn't matter now.  Jesus, though, I haven't even got a hat!"

      "What do you need a hat for?  When you get to London you can buy everything you need.  All you need now is to hurry.  We've got to find out when the train leaves."

      "Listen," he said, reaching for his wallet.  "I'm going to leave everything to you.  Here, take this and do whatever's necessary.  I'm too weak.... I'm dizzy."

      I took the wallet and emptied it of the bills he had just drawn from the bank.  A cab was standing at the curb.  We hopped in.  There was a train leaving the Gare du Nord at four o'clock or thereabouts.  I was figuring it out - the bank, the Consulate, the American Express, the station.  Fine!  Just about make it.

      "Now buck up!" I said, "and keep your shirt on!  Shit! in a few hours you'll be crossing the Channel.  Tonight you'll be walking around in London and you'll get a good bellyful of English.  Tomorrow you'll be on the open sea - and then, by Jesus, you're a free man and you needn't give a fuck what happens.  By the time you get to New York this'll be nothing more than a bad dream."

      This got him so excited that his feet were moving convulsively, as if he were trying to run inside the cab.  At the bank his hand was trembling so that he could hardly sign his name.  But I think, had it been necessary, I could have sat him on the toilet and wiped his ass.  I was determined to ship him off, even if I had to fold him up and put him in a valise.

      It was lunch hour when we got to the British Consulate, and the place was closed.  That meant waiting until two o'clock.  I couldn't think of anything better to do, by way of killing time, than to eat.  Fillmore, of course, wasn't hungry.  He was for eating a sandwich.  "Fuck that!" I said.  "You're going to blow me to a good lunch.  It's the last square meal you're going to have over here - maybe for a long while."  I steered him to a cosy little restaurant and ordered a good spread.  I ordered the best wine on the menu, regardless of price or taste.  I had all his money in my pocket - oodles of it, it seemed to me.  Certainly never before had I had so much in my fist at one time.  It was a treat to break a thousand franc note.  I held it up to the light first to look at the beautiful watermark.  Beautiful money!  One of the few things the French make on a grand scale.  Artistically done, too, as if they cherished a deep affection even for the symbol.

      The meal over, we went to a café.  I ordered Chartreuse with the coffee.  Why not?  And I broke another bill - a five- hundred franc note this time.  It was a clean, new, crisp bill.  A pleasure to handle such money.  The waiter handed me back a lot of dirty old bills that had been patched up with strips of gummed paper; I had a stack of five and ten franc notes and a bagful of chicken feed.  Chinese money, with holes in it.  I didn't know in which pocket to stuff the money anymore.  My trousers were bursting with coins and bills.  It made me slightly uncomfortable also, hauling all that dough out in public.  I was afraid we might be taken for a couple of crooks.

      When we got to the American Express there wasn't a devil of a lot of time left.  the British, in their usual fumbling farting way, had kept us on pins and needles.  Here everybody was sliding around on casters.  They were so speedy that everything had to be done twice.  After all the cheques were signed and clipped in a neat little holder, it was discovered that he had signed in the wrong place.  Nothing to do but start all over again.  I stood over him, with one eye on the clock, and watched every stroke of the pen.  It hurt to hand over the dough.  Not all of it, thank God - but a good part of it.  I had roughly about 2,500 francs in my pocket.  Roughly, I say.  I wasn't counting by francs anymore.  A hundred, or two hundred, more or less - it didn't mean a goddamned thing to me.  As for him, he was going through the whole transaction in a daze.  He didn't know how much money he had.  All he knew was that he had to keep something aside for Ginette.  He wasn't certain yet how much - we were going to figure that out on the way to the station.

      In the excitement we had forgotten to change all the money.  We were already in the cab, however, and there wasn't any time to be lost.  The thing was to find out how we stood.  We emptied our pockets quickly and began to whack it up.  Some of it was lying on the floor, some of it was on the seat.  It was bewildering.  There was French, American and English money.  And all that chicken feed besides.  I felt like picking up the coins and chucking them out of the window - just to simplify matters.  Finally we sifted it all out; he held on to the English and American money, and I held on to the French money.

      We had to decided quickly now what to do about Ginette - how much to give her, what to tell her, etc.  He was trying to fix up a yarn for me to hand her - didn't want her to break her heart and so forth.  I had to cut him short.

      "Never mind what to tell her," I said.  "Leave that to me.  How much are you going to give her, that's the thing?  Why give her anything?"

      That was like setting a bomb under his ass.  He burst into tears.  Such tears!  It was worse than before.  I thought he was going to collapse on my hands.  Without stopping to think, I said: "All right, let's give her all this French money.  That ought to last her for a while."

      "How much is it?" he asked feebly.

      "I don't know - about 2,000 francs or so.  More than she deserves anyway."

      "Christ! Don't say that!" he begged.  "After all, it's a rotten break I'm giving her.  Her folks'll never take her back now.  No, give it to her.  Give her the whole damned business.... I don't care what it is."

      He pulled a handkerchief out to wipe the tears away.  "I can't help it," he said.  "It's too much for me."  I said nothing.  Suddenly he sprawled himself out full length - I thought he was taking a fit or something - and he said: "Jesus, I think I ought to go back.  I ought to go back and face the music.  If anything should happen to her I'd never forgive myself."

      That was a rude jolt for me.  "Christ!" I shouted, "you can't do that!  Not now.  It's too late.  You're going to take the train and I'm going to tend to her myself.  I'll go see her just as soon as I leave you.  Why, you poor boob, if she ever thought you had tried to run away from her she'd murder you, don't you realize that?  You can't go back anymore.  It's settled."

      Anyway, what could go wrong? I asked myself.  Kill herself?  Tant mieux.

      When we rolled up to the station we had still about twelve minutes to kill.  I didn't dare to say goodbye to him yet.  At the last minute, rattled as he was, I could see him jumping off the train and scooting back to her.  Anything might swerve him.  A straw.  So I dragged him across the street to a bar and I said: "Now you're going to have a Pernod - your last Pernod and I'm going to pay for it ... with your dough."

      Something about this remark made him look at me uneasily.  He took a big gulp of the Pernod and then, turning to me like an injured dog, he said: "I know I oughtn't to trust you with all that money, but ... but ... Oh, well, do what you think best.  I don't want her to kill herself, that's all."

      "Kill herself?" I said.  "Not her!  You must think a hell of a lot of yourself if you can believe a thing like that.  As for the money, though I hate to give it to her, I promise you I'll go straight to the post office and telegraph it to her.  I wouldn't trust myself with it a minute longer than is necessary."  As I said this I spied a bunch of postcards in a revolving rack.  I grabbed one off - a picture of the Eiffel Tower it was - and made him write a few words.  "Tell her you're sailing now.  Tell her you love her and that you'll send for her as soon as you arrive.... I'll send it by pneumatique when I go to the post office.  And tonight I'll see her.  Everything'll be jake, you'll see."

      With that we walked across the street to the station.  Only two minutes to go.  I felt it was safe now.  At the gate I gave him a slap on the back and pointed to the train.  I didn't shake hands with him - he would have slobbered all over me.  I just said: "Hurry!  She's going in a minute."  And with that I turned on my heel and marched off.  I didn't even look round to see if he was boarding the train.  I was afraid to.

 

      I hadn't thought, all the while I was bundling him off, what I'd do once I was free of him.  I had promised a lot of things - but that was only to keep him quiet.  As for facing Ginette, I had about as little courage for it as he had.  I was getting panicky myself.  Everything had happened so quickly that it was impossible to grasp the nature of the situation in full.  I walked away from the station in a kind of delicious stupor - with the postcard in my hand.  I stood against a lamppost and read it over.  It sounded preposterous.  I read it again, to make sure that I wasn't dreaming, and then I tore it up and threw it in the gutter.

      I looked around uneasily, half expecting to see Ginette coming after me with a tomahawk.  Nobody was following me.  I started walking leisurely toward the Place Lafayette.  It was a beautiful day, as I had observed earlier.  Light, puffy clouds above, sailing with the wind.  The awnings flapping.  Paris had never looked so good to me, I almost felt sorry that I had shipped the poor bugger off.  At the Place Lafayette I sat down facing the church and stared at the clock tower; it's not such a wonderful piece of architecture, but that blue in the dial face always fascinated me.  It was bluer than ever today.  I couldn't take my eyes off it.

      Unless he were crazy enough to write her a letter, explaining everything, Ginette need never know what had happened.  And even if she did learn that he had left her 2,500 francs or so she couldn't prove it.  I could always say that he imagined it.  A guy who was crazy enough to walk off without even a hat was crazy enough to invent the 2,500 francs, or whatever it was.  How much was it anyhow?, I wondered.  My pockets were sagging with the weight of it.  I hauled it all out and counted it carefully.  There was exactly 2,875 francs and 35 centimes.  More than I had thought.  The 75 francs and 35 centimes had to be gotten rid of.  I wanted an even sum - a clean 2,800 francs.  Just then I saw a cab pulling up to the curb.  A woman stepped out with a white poodle dog in her hands; the dog was peeing over her silk dress.  The idea of taking a dog for a ride got me sore.  I'm as good as her dog, I said to myself, and with that I gave the driver a sign and told him to drive me through the Bois.  He wanted to know where exactly.  "Anywhere," I said.  "Go through the Bois, go all around it - and take your time, I'm in no hurry."  I sank back and let the houses whizz by, the jagged roofs, the chimney pots, the coloured walls, the urinals, the dizzy carrefours.  Passing the Rond-Point I thought I'd go downstairs and take a leak.  No telling what might happen down there.  I told the driver to wait.  It was the first time in my life I had let a cab wait while I took a leak.  How much can you waste that way?  Not very much.  With what I had in my pocket I could afford to have two taxis waiting for me.

      I took a good look around but I didn't see anything worth while.  What I wanted was something fresh and unused - something from Alaska or the Virgin Islands.  A clean fresh pelt with a natural fragrance to it.  Needless to say, there wasn't anything like that walking about.  I wasn't terribly disappointed.  I didn't give a fuck whether I found anything or not.  The thing is, never to be too anxious.  Everything comes in due time.

      We drove on past the Arc de Triomphe.  A few sightseers were loitering around the remains of the Unknown Soldier.  Going through the Bois I looked at all the rich cunts promenading in their limousines.  They were whizzing by as if they had some destination.  Do that, no doubt, to look important - to show the world how smooth run their Rolls-Royces and their Hispano Suizas.  Inside me things were running smoother than any Rolls-Royce ever ran.  It was just like velvet inside.  Velvet cortex and velvet vertebrae.  And velvet axle grease, what!  It's a wonderful thing, for half an hour, to have money in your pocket and piss it away like a drunken sailor.  You feel as though the world is yours.  And the best part of it is, you don't know what to do with it.  You can sit back and let the meter run wild, you can let the wind blow through your hair, you can stop and have a drink, you can give a big tip, and you can swagger off as though it were an everyday occurrence.  But you can't create a revolution.  You can't wash all the dirt out of your belly.

      When we got to the Porte d'Auteuil I made him head for the Seine.  At the Pont de Sevres I got out and started walking along the river, toward the Auteuil Viaduct.  It's about the size of a creek along here and the trees come right down to the river's bank.  The water was green and glassy, especially near the other side.  Now and then a scow chugged by.  Bathers in tights were standing in the grass sunning themselves.  Everything was close and palpitant, and vibrant with the strong light.

      Passing a beer garden I saw a group of cyclists sitting at a table.  I took a seat nearby and ordered a demi.  Hearing them jabber away, I thought for a moment of Ginette.  I saw her stamping up and down the room, tearing her hair, and sobbing and bleating, in that beastlike way of hers.  I saw his hat on the rack.  I wondered if his clothes would fit me.  He had a raglan that I particularly liked.  Well, by now he was on his way.  I a little while the boat would be rocking under him.  English!  He wanted to hear English spoken.  What an idea!

      Suddenly it occurred to me that if I wanted I could go to America myself.  It was the first time the opportunity had ever presented itself.  I asked myself - "do you want to go?"  There was no answer.  My thoughts drifted out, toward the sea, toward the other side where, taking a last look back, I had seen the skyscrapers fading out in a flurry of snowflakes.  I saw them looming up again, in that same ghostly way as when I left.  Saw the lights creeping through their ribs.  I saw the whole city spread out, from Harlem to the Battery, the streets choked with ants, the elevated rushing by, the theatres emptying.  I wondered in a vague way what had ever happened to my wife.

      After everything had quietly sifted through my head a great peace came over me.  Here, where the river gently winds through the girdle of hills, lies a soil so saturated with the past that however far back the mind roams one can never detach it from its human background.  Christ, before my eyes there shimmered such a golden peace that only a neurotic could dream of turning his head away.  So quietly flows the Seine that one hardly notices its presence.  It is always there, quiet and unobtrusive, like a great artery running through the human body.  In the wonderful peace that fell over me it seemed as if I had climbed to the top of a high mountain; for a little while I would be able to look around me, to take in the meaning of the landscape.

 

      Human beings make a strange fauna and flora.  From a distance they appear negligible; close up they are apt to appear ugly and malicious.  More than anything they need to be surrounded with sufficient space - space even more than time.

 

      The sun is setting.  I feel this river flowing through me - its past, its ancient soil, the changing climate.  The hills gently girdle it about: its course is fixed.