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"That is a misinterpretation," repeated the employee, shaking his head, "a regrettable misinterpretation. Your eyes are not yet accustomed to look ing at what's before you." He stared into the darkness and fell silent. "Do you seriously believe that?" said Thomas. "Very seriously," said the employee. "What have I not been mindful enough to see?" asked Thomas. "The room," answered the employee quietly. "It would appear that every thing is as you have indicated. The room has changed, and there is nothing more in it that corresponds to the original purpose it served in times past. It is no longer the same room, and we are no longer the same men. There fore, in a sense, you are right; you are perhaps even more right than you think, because, in truth, you are a thousand miles from that room, and you will never be there. But, from another point of view, the real situation is completely different. They wanted to transform the room, and not only transform it but destroy it from top to bottom -a childish idea. They did everything they could: scrape the walls bare, cover the wooden floors with carpet, raise our desks in this ridiculous way, and, especially, install in a pit this sinister machine that shakes the foundations and pollutes the atmo sphere; but what has come of all this effort? The transformation did modify the outward appearance of the room for those who had never seen what it truly is, and they have continued to see nothing. But the others? What do they see? What has changed for them? They open their eyes and see that everything is as it was before. How could I explain that to you? Take our work, for example. The papers I hold in my hand seem to bear no relation to my oId occupation; given the disorder that reigns here, they are usu ally worthless; it even happens sometimes that I rip them to pieces simply to prove to myself their insignificance. What's more - and this would be enough to make them contemptible - they come from the machine; it is the machine that prepares the decision, we have only to apply it. The ma chine seems therefore to control everything. And yet is it really so? No, it is not; our affairs proceed quite differently. For the machine itself, this ac cursed apparatus, has been put into the service of our bureau, and it has become its principle working tool. On any day whatever, at any moment whatever, someone may push the wheel and send it spinning. We are not the ones who provoke this gesture; we sit here quietly, like so many under lings, and do not see anything. But when we hear the sound of the axle 62

scraping against its casing, we know that the machine is working for us. At the same time, a secretary takes from the mass of documents spread on his table all the papers he keeps for us. Do these papers correspond to any in dication given by the apparatus? Is it not more likely that they are prepared and written up before any indication is given? This is something we have no way of knowing. The secretary, for his part, thinks only of getting out from under his task. He gives his papers to a domestic, and the domestic, although he pretends never to make a mistake, passes them around to suit his whims. Seen from the outside, the documents are irreproachable. They are written out legibly, and for each name there is a corresponding num ber. But as soon as we cast the slightest glance at them, we see what they are, grim piles of paper that will be meaningless until we have deciphered them. Just look at them," said the employee, pointing to a large white sheet on which some names were written. Thomas could examine them only from a distance; the employee did not allow him to come closer. "The writing has no elegance," he continued, as he looked at the paper himself. ''After reading it, one comes to realize the immensity of the work that remains to be done." "What work?" asked Thomas. "I have nothing to hide from you," said the employee, "but all the same I cannot explain our methods to you. Besides, they would reveal nothing. What happens is perfectly dear. The machine works in such a way as to avoid any cause for complaints. But of course it cannot express the ver dict itself. It is in need of competent, authorized men who interpret the sentence, or, as we say, who transcribe it. It is therefore necessary for the public to turn to us, and each one files before our desks in the hope that our gaze will enlighten him. Occasionally, we call to one of the petitioners and ask him to approach. Does this mean that he has been chosen? No. And yet it signifies much more than that, for we add new information to his file; we complete the description of his face; we make his identification easier; all this in order to enlarge the dossier that is handed over to the employee who is responsible for reading the list of winners." ''And this is not one of your responsibilities?" asked Thomas. "It is an insignificant task," answered the employee. "Whoever has walked through the room, and whoever has presented himself before us, knows more than any crude reading will ever teach him."

Thomas moved a few steps away to look around the room. Was it true that his eyes did not allow him to see everything? To him, the room ap peared large and beautiful; it would probably be pleasant to walk all the way through it. The impression it gave was not a bad one. It was rather the employees who were disappointing to him. "Now," he said when he came back, "it is time for me to withdraw." "So you are leaving," said the employee timidly. He came down from his high desk, and after struggling with his legs, which had grown numb from such a long period of motionlessness, he found himself next to his visitor. He was short and scrawny. Thomas had to bend down so as not to tower over him. "No doubt you do not believe what I have told you." The employee spoke in a low voice. Thomas did not answer; he was in a hurry to leave, to go at least to the far end of the room. But the darkness prevented him from going away without help. "You should not judge my words too quickly," said the employee. "I have not explained everything, and I can begin my story again. Do not worry about tiring me; certain people have only understood after the seventh narration." "I thank you," said Thomas, "your explanations have enlightened me." He began to walk with slow steps. The room was almost entirely filled with darkness. From time to time a patch of light seemed to shine somewhere far away, but the shadows were no less dark for all that. Where were they now? Had they come again to the middle of the room? Were they far from the machine? Thomas saw the dim reflection of a metal cabinet that then disappeared into the shadows. So as not to discourage the employee, he asked him: "Do the windows open onto the street?" "There are no windows," said the employee. "Where are we going?" said Thomas. He did not need an answer; the darkness rendered it superfluous. He took a few more steps, and then, after touching the wall and noticing its gentle curvature, he called to his com panion. He responded in a trembling voice, as if walking had taken away the last of his strength. "What else do you want to explain to me?" asked Thomas. "Aren't you leaving?" said the employee. "Yes, I am," said Thomas. "Besides, I have no right to stay." "Well then, go! " said the employee .

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Struck by this abrupt change of tone, Thomas turned around and took the man's arm. He wanted to hold him back, but they began to make their way again. Nevertheless, he felt the need to hear his voice once more. He almost shouted: "Who are you?" and violently shook his arm. He heard the clanking chains that bound him to Dom. It was Dom he had next to him. The man had already left. He thought he could explain the mistake, but it mortified him. He had completely forgotten that the chains had not been taken off. It seemed to him that he was emerging from a long insomnia in which no one could communicate with him and in which he himself was unable to express his thoughts. So the employee had left? He had been unable to keep him near? Perhaps he would have been able in the end to understand his language and to listen to him. Now it was too late. After a few slow and weary steps, they reached the far end of the room and found a large window that let in a feeble light. But they tried in vain to see anything at all. What was outside? Was it nighttime? Was the street there? When they opened the window, they were struck in the face by the icy air from outside. How calm it was here, how far away everything was! They moved forward again, and de spite the unchanging darkness, Thomas recognized the balcony. He was not disappointed. No doubt he had taken the wrong path, but the night transformed everything. The balcony appeared larger to him, and more isolated. It was like a vast terrace where one could walk in every direction without encountering any obstacles and where nevertheless one did not have the feeling of getting lost. One was already lost. Thomas lay down along the railing, pulled his coat over himself, and Dom's enormous body pressed with a shiver against his own. Suddenly he was being shaken: "They're waiting for you," someone shouted to him. He sat up wearily and said in a solemn voice: "Why have I been dis turbed?" Was the night already over? He lay down again in search of sleep, but he was shaken a second time. It was an authoritative appeal; whoever was there had no doubt that he would be obeyed. Thomas waited for him to explain why someone had been sent to look for him. He was still huddled under his coat, but he listened carefully and did nothing to make one think he was asleep. Nevertheless, the messenger remained silent, and after a few moments he went away. During part of the night, he walked around with

quiet, regular steps. From time to time he was no longer to be heard; it seemed that he had completely disappeared; but a moment later his steps resounded again, and it was as if nothing could interrupt them. Thomas pondered this incident. Finally he curled up under his coat and closed his eyes. He was drawn from his torpor by the opening of a window. He abruptly stood up. The noise was coming from the upper floors. But his gaze was not drawn upward; right next to the bakony another window was illuminated, and - a strange sight - a man held in his outstretched hand a pitcher he was swinging back and forth, as if he were trying to cool some boiling liquid by exposing it to the freezing air. Thomas yelled to him: "It's very cold out here. May I come in for a moment?" The man stared at him intently. "Come in if you want," he said. This re sponse was meaningless. Where could he go in? Thomas made a gesture to indicate his predicament. "How did you get here?" said the man. Thomas did not answer. The mo ment for asking such a question had passed. The man spoke again: "Who are you?" He spoke with a curt voice that showed no hint of indulgence. "Since when have you been staying in the house?" So many questions! Yet Thomas did not have the sense that he was really being interrogated. The man did not wait for any answers, as if to empha size that the answers didn't matter; only the questions were important. Just then someone began to beat carpets on the floor above; they were certainly doing some large scale cleaning; water flowed over the window panes; brooms knocked against walls; dust rags were snapped into the wind. At this hour? It was incredible. What was going on? One might have thought that the morning had already come and that the large vestibule never received any sunlight. Thomas looked up, but in vain; he saw noth ing, but although he could not penetrate the shadows, he stood there lis tening to the echoes of this calm, regular life, feeling that in this existence full of tranquility lay the hopes for which he had abandoned everything and which justified its perils. He said in a hushed voice: "I am expected on the uppermost floor. Could you not tell me the way?" "Absolutely," said the man. "But first you are expected here." His tone was threatening, and it was difficult to take his assent seriously. There was nothing to say in response to his objection either. Thomas passed over it in silence. 66

"Is it possible," he asked, "for me to reach the second floor without pass ing through the grand hall?" Receiving no response, he added: "This prob ably is the second floor," and turned to his interlocutor. He noticed with surprise that a ray of light was emanating from the pitcher. What he could see of the man's face was manly and beautiful. His eyes appeared to sink deeply under thick eyebrows. A short beard covered his chin. After exam ining his face, Thomas thought it necessary to say: "Forgive me, I did not think that I had really been summoned." "Come on then," the man said curtly. A strange invitation, for it was he who closed the window and went away. Thomas now thought of nothing other than leaving the balcony and making his way to the bedroom above. It was first necessary to gain the support of the person who was working up there. He approached the far end of the railing and stared into the darkness, and the darkness was as thick as ever. He shouted. A sly sounding voice responded. A light was suddenly lit, and a young girl appeared in the window. It was Barbe. She did not seem at all resentful of his abandonment of her; he left, she forgot him; he returned, she welcomed him; this is what made his reia tions with her pleasant but useless. With no consideration for the present time and place, which might have caused her to be a little more reserved, she cried out with joy, and her gaiety became truly unbearable when she saw Thomas's companion. "And where is my darling?" she cried. "Where is Dom?" Thomas was almost glad when he saw the window on the balcony open and the man coming toward him. He was large and strong. His presence was imposing. But Barbe was not impressed. "Goodbye," she said, waving her hands, "goodbye to my little pet." She cried out again when the man crossed the threshold: "What a handsome fellow!" Thomas blushed at hearing her speak so, but the man paid no heed to this childishness. He led the way for Thomas, who almost had to run after him. It was all the more difficult in that Dom, still half asleep and only now catching on to the maidservant's sweet talk, kept turning around and wanted to go back. They quickly passed through the large room, now lit by small candles placed at regular intervals, and could hardly recognize the arrangement of the desks and the placement of the carpets. The whole room had been turned upside down since they had left. Someone had cer tainly come with the intention of cleaning the room, but as often happened

in the house, the work had been interrupted, and all one could see were overturned chairs and papers scattered everywhere, not to mention the curtains that were spread out on the floor. At the other end of the room a large and beautiful doorway - probably the counterpart to the window was open. Heavy sculptures decorated both of its door panels. The golden hinges shone. It was the most majestic part of the room. "Go in," said the man. Had they arrived? Thomas bumped violently against a wall and knocked over a small rack loaded with brooms, brushes, and cleaning rags. It was only a narrow hallway, probably serving as a garbage room. As he tried to put the implements back in order -surrounded by the dust he himself had raised - the man opened a door at the other end of the corridor, and, in a gentler tone, he asked him to wait for a few moments. Thomas did not notice at first the strangeness of the request. He was too taken up with his annoyance at the existence of such a small room whose filth and horrid smell inspired the most vigorous revulsion. "A real dump," said Thomas to himself. At that point he thought there was no need to wait, and he knocked on the little door. "Come in, come in!" someone shouted to him. His first thought upon entering the room was that he had stepped into a cafe. There were tables placed along the walls, and several people were sitting with drinking glasses or large white bowls. The middle of the room was empty. On the right, at an angle, there was a platform that could be used by a small orchestra. A young man approached Thomas and asked him to sit down at a table where two men were waiting for him. He was greeted with indifference. The people nearby were whispering with a forced and weary animation, holding their heads down, their foreheads leaning almost onto the table. Their cheeks were radiant, but this appear ance of life did not give an impression of good health, and the fever that agitated them showed their desire to say everything, to see everything, before they were plunged by fatigue back into their usual passivity. The young man who had accompanied Thomas, a domestic no doubt, poured some thick coffee with a refreshing odor into a large cup. Thomas drank greedily, unconcerned with the others; he had never drunk anything so delicious and was suddenly overcome with a great thirst that he could not seem to quench. The domestic remained standing next to the table for a moment, no doubt so that he might pour a second cup for him if he so de68