Lighting the bougie, I
surveyed the horrible apartment. A heap of rags lay in a corner, and
this was evidently Simard's bed. I hauled him to it, and there he lay
unconscious, himself a bundle of rags. I found one chair, or, rather,
stool, for it had no back. I drew the table against the lockless door,
blew out the light, sat on the stool, resting my arms on the table,
and my head on my arms, and slept peacefully till long after daybreak.
Simard awoke in the worst possible humour. He poured forth a great
variety of abusive epithets at me. To make himself still more
agreeable, he turned back the rags on which he had slept, and brought
to the light a round, black object, like a small cannon-ball, which he
informed me was the picric bomb that was to scatter destruction among
my English friends, for whom he expressed the greatest possible
loathing and contempt. Then sitting up, he began playing with this
infernal machine, knowing, as well as I, that if he allowed it to drop
that was the end of us two.
I shrugged my shoulders at this display, and affected a nonchalance I
was far from feeling, but finally put an end to his dangerous
amusement by telling him that if he came out with me I would pay for
his breakfast, and give him a drink of absinthe.
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