“Not so fast there,” he roared behind me.
I slowed up. We reached the landing. I was sure that the Gestionnaire
was a very fierce man—probably a lean slight person who would rush at
me from the nearest door saying “Hands up” in French, whatever that may
be. The door opposite me stood open. I looked in. There was the
Surveillant standing, hands behind back, approvingly regarding my
progress. I was asking myself, Should I bow? when a scurrying and a
tittering made me look left, along a dark and particularly dirty hall.
Women’s voices … I almost fell with surprise. Were not those shadows’
faces peering a little boldly at me from doors? How many girls were
there—it sounded as if there were a hundred—
“_Qu’est-ce que vous faites_,” etc., and the _planton_ gave me a good
shove in the direction of another flight of stairs. I obligingly
ascended; thinking of the Surveillant as a spider, elegantly poised in
the centre of his nefarious web, waiting for a fly to make too many
struggles….
At the top of this flight I was confronted by a second hall. A shut
door indicated the existence of a being directly over the Surveillant’s
holy head. Upon this door, lest I should lose time in speculating, was
in ample letters inscribed: