em to it.

* * * * *

As I leave the Jewish quarter, I go past the Arab Bureau. From outside,
with its slate grey roof and French flag flying above, it could be
taken for the village town hall. I know the interpreter, so I go in and
have a cigarette with him. In between fags, this sunless Sunday has
turned out quite well.

The yard in front of the Bureau is packed with shabbily dressed Arabs.
Fifteen of them, in their burnouses, are squatting there along the
wall, turning it into a sort of lobby. This Bedouin area--despite being
in the open air--gives off a very strong smell of human flesh. Moving
quickly past.... I find the interpreter occupied with two large,
loud-mouthed Arabs, quite naked under their filthy blankets, madly
miming some story or other about a stolen chain. I sit down on a mat in
a corner and look on.... The Milianah's interpreter's uniform is very
fetching, and how well he carries it! They are made for each other. The
uniform is sky blue with black frogging and shiny gold buttons. With
fair tightly curled hair and a light-skin, he cuts a fine figure, this
hussar in blue, and is full of fun and strange tales. He is naturally
talkative--he speaks many languages, and is a bit of a religious
sceptic; he knew Renan at the Oriental School!--a great amateur
sportsman, he is equally at ease in an Arab tent or at the
Sub-prefect's soirees. He dances the mazurka as well as anyone, and
makes couscous better than anyone. To sum up, he's a Parisian, and he's
my sort of man. No wonder the women are mad about him.... He is a sharp
dresser, and only the Arab Bureau's sergeant is in the same league, the
sergeant--who, with his uniform of fine material and mother of pearl
buttoned leggings, causes envy, and despair, in the garrison. Our man
is on attachment to the Bureau, and he is excused fatigues and is often
seen in the streets, white gloved, his hair freshly curled, and large
files under his arm. He is admired and he is feared. He is
authoritative.

To be sure, this story of the stolen chain threatens to become an epic.
Bye-bye! I shan't wait for the end.

The Bureau area is in uproar as I leave. The crowd is crushing round a
tall, pale, proud, local man dressed in a black burnous. A week ago,
this man fought a panther in the Zaccar. The panther is dead; but the
man has lost half his left arm. In the morning and at night he comes to
have his wounds dressed at the Bureau, and every time, h