CROSSING
PARIS
557
already, the proprietor of the establishment felt his temper rising at
this laborious entry, whose slowness seemed to border upon perversity.
The sight of the valises completed his displeasure.
"This is my closing time," he grumbled. "With all that para–
phernalia, you certainly chose a good moment to arrive."
He examined the valises with a suspicious glance.
"You're not running into my place with the police at your
heels, are you? Because with me, these rows. . . . "
"Give us some mulled wine," interrupted Grandgil.
"We're out of it."
"Give us some mulled wine."
Without raising his voice, the ram had made his tone more
peremptory. Impressed by the assurance and the tough appearance
of this customer, who might be armed, the bartender stole a side–
long glance at his wife, who was knitting a sock between the cash
register and a rinsing tub. She answered him with a wink, and he
went out through a low door opening into a side room. Martin was
chafing inwardly, mentally rebuking Grandgil for his truculent man–
ner. A group of belote players, who had just finished their game at a
wooden table, were looking curiously at the valise carriers and whis–
pering to each other. All four of them were young men, government
laborers and clerks in the shops. They looked to be half famished,
and were visibly interested in the valises themselves, whose contents
they seemed to be calculating with a malicious light in their eyes.
Martin was in a hurry to get out of this place. With its blistered
plaster walls, its dirty floor, its shabby furniture, this narrow, low–
ceilinged room had an air of exceedingly sordid intimacy, that made
one think of the decor of a low theater. Near the little iron stove
a thin man with yellow eyes, dressed in a black jacket and stiff
collar, was scribbling on a piece of paper which he shielded with his
bent arm, and from time to time, without raising his head, he swept
a suspicious glance around him. He was the perfect type of the
indispensable traitor, or of the cautious and ruthless policeman who
is awaiting his opportunity. Memories of the theater at Belleville and
melodramas he had seen as a child came back to Martin's mind. He
began to think that the figure of the ram was no less mysterious than
the characters of these dramas. That strange face was at the same
time closed and transparent. The smile which habitually lighted the
