another. And laws are drawn up. And a people seethes, lying in wait, behind the threshold of its great house; destinies are flung to it, and it swallows them!

And my hand turns, and turns. My hand is a small probe, lost in a huge, giant machine! So I muttered: How did I dare fall ill for ten days, and not two? And how can the people of France go hungry — the child of biscuit? Or is there not a tie of kinship between the chief's sentence and Marie Antoinette's sentence? The rulers are the rulers, and the toil-ers are the toilers, in every state. And in every age. The veins of my hand stiffened, and it started up, and stretched out at my side, bringing life back to my eyes, that they might defy the presiding officer's savage stares. And to my legs, that they might be strong enough to go on carrying the body. And to my lips, that they might requite the contempt for our asking leave to live — with a mocking smile. And silence. And a brave flight... And I leaned upon my hand all the way to this place,

driven along the road by a chok-ing lump gathered in my throat, my steps hobbled by a black, mad fear! And I washed the treasure — which influenza had left a mass of bones — with a stream of salt drops; then I tried to rise, to pour iced water over it, to revive it and

rid it of the burning of two lips... But a fly hurried to share a little nourishment from it with me. We too are flies, buzzing at the dirty ears of the chiefs, sharing a little nourishment from them. We: the simple people, the strugglers, the good. We are nothing.