LITMIR.BIZ

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he had none, he was informed (politely enough) that he must appear before the Commissary.

      The Commissary sat at a table in his bedroom, stripped to the shirt and trousers, but still copiously perspiring; and when he turned upon the prisoner a large meaningless countenance, that was (like Bardolph’s) “all whelks and bubuckles,” the dullest might have been prepared for grief. Here was a stupid man, sleepy with the heat and fretful at the interruption, whom neither appeal nor argument could reach.

      The Commissary: “You have no papers?”

      The Arethusa: “Not here.”

      The Commissary: “Why?”

      The Arethusa: “I have left them behind in my valise.”

      The Commissary: “You know, however, that it is forbidden to circulate without papers?”

      The Arethusa: “Pardon me: I am convinced of the contrary. I am here on my rights as an English subject by international treaty.”

      The Commissary (with scorn): “You call yourself an Englishman?”

      The Arethusa: “I do.”

      The Commissary: “Humph. — What is your trade?”

      The Arethusa: “I am a Scottish Advocate.”

      The Commissary (with singular annoyance): “A Scottish Advocate! Do you then pretend to support yourself by that in this Department?”

      The Arethusa modestly disclaimed the pretension. The Commissary had scored a point.

      The Commissary: “Why, then, do you travel?”

      The Arethusa: “I travel for pleasure.”

      The Commissary (pointing to the knapsack, and with sublime incredulity): “Avec ça? Voyez-vous, je suis un homme intelligent!” (With that? Look here, I am a person of intelligence!)

      The culprit remaining silent under this home-thrust, the Commissary relished his triumph for a while, and then demanded (like the postman, but with what different expectations!) to see the contents of the knapsack. And here the Arethusa, not yet sufficiently awake to his position, fell into a grave mistake. There was little or no furniture in the room except the Commissary’s chair and table; and to facilitate matters, the Arethusa (with all the innocence on earth) leant the knapsack on a corner of the bed. The Commissary fairly bounded from his seat; his face and neck flushed past purple, almost into blue; and he screamed to lay the desecrating object on the floor.

      The knapsack proved to contain a change of shirts, of shoes, of socks, and of linen trousers, a small dressing-case, a piece of soap in one of the shoes, two volumes of the Collection Jannet lettered “Poésies de Charles d’Orleans,” a map, and a version-book containing divers notes in prose and the remarkable English roundels of the voyager, still to this day unpublished: the Commissary of Châtillon is the only living man who has clapped an eye on these artistic trifles. He turned the assortment over with a contumelious finger; it was plain from his daintiness that he regarded the Arethusa and all his belongings as the very temple of infection. Still there was nothing suspicious about the map, nothing really criminal except the roundels; as for Charles of Orleans, to the ignorant mind of the prisoner, he seemed as good as a certificate; and it was supposed the farce was nearly over.

      The inquisitor resumed his seat.

      The Commissary (after a pause): “Eh bien, je vais vous dire ce que vous êtes. Vous êtes allemand el vous venez chanter à la foire.” (Well, then, I will tell you what you are. You are a German, and have come to sing at the fair.)

      The Arethusa: “Would you like to hear me sing? I believe I could convince you of the contrary.”

      The Commissary: “Pas de plaisanterie, monsieur!”

      The Arethusa: “Well, sir, oblige me at least by looking at this book. Here, I open it with my eyes shut. Read one of these songs — read this one — and tell me, you who are a man of intelligence, if it would be possible to sing it at a fair?”

      The Commissary (critically): “Mais oui. Tres bien.”

      The Arethusa: “Comment, monsieur! What! But do you not observe it is antique? It is difficult to understand, even for you and me; but for the audience at a fair, it would be meaningless.”

      The Commissary (taking a pen): “Enfin, il faut en finir. What is your name?”

      The Arethusa (speaking with the swallowing vivacity of the English): “Robert-Louis-Stev’ns’n.”

      The Commissary (aghast): “Hé! Quoi?”

      The Arethusa (perceiving and improving his advantage): “Rob’rt-Lou’s-Stev’ns’n.”

      The Commissary (after several conflicts with his pen): “Eh bien, il faut se passer du nom. Ça ne s’écrit pas.” (Well, we must do without the name: it is unspellable.)

      The above is a rough summary of this momentous conversation, in which I have been chiefly careful to preserve the plums of the Commissary; but the remainder of the scene, perhaps because of his rising anger, has left but little definite in the memory of the Arethusa. The Commissary was not, I think, a practiced literary man; no sooner, at least, had he taken pen in hand and embarked on the composition of the procès-verbal, than he became distinctly more uncivil, and began to show a predilection for that simplest of all forms of repartee: “You lie.” Several times the Arethusa let it pass, and then suddenly flared up, refused to accept more insults or to answer further questions, defied the Commissary to do his worst, and promised him, if he did, that he should bitterly repent it. Perhaps if he had worn this proud front from the first, instead of beginning with a sense of entertainment and then going on to argue, the thing might have turned otherwise; for even at this eleventh hour the Commissary was visibly staggered. But it was too late; he had been challenged; the procès-verbal was begun; and he again squared his elbows over his writing, and the Arethusa was led forth a prisoner.

      A step or two down the hot road stood the gendarmerie. Thither was our unfortunate conducted, and there he was bidden to empty forth the contents of his pockets. A handkerchief, a pen, a pencil, a pipe and tobacco, matches, and some ten francs of change: that was all. Not a file, not a cipher, not a scrap of writing whether to identify or to condemn. The very gendarme was appalled before such destitution.

      “I regret,” he said, “that I arrested you, for I see that you are no voyou.” And he promised him every indulgence.

      The Arethusa, thus encouraged, asked for his pipe. That he was told was impossible, but if he chewed, he might have some tobacco. He did not chew, however, and asked instead to have his handkerchief.

      “Non,” said the gendarme. “Nous avons eu des histoires de gens qui se sont pendus.” (No, we have had histories of people who hanged themselves.)

      “What!” cried the Arethusa. “And is it for that you refuse me my handkerchief? But see how much more easily I could hang myself in my trousers!”

      The man was struck by the novelty of the idea, but he stuck to his colours, and only continued to repeat vague offers of service.

      “At least,” said the Arethusa, “be sure that you arrest my comrade; he will follow me ere long on the same road, and you can tell him by the sack upon his shoulders.”

      This promised, the prisoner was led round into the back court of the building, a cellar door was opened, he was motioned down the stair, and bolts grated and chains clanged behind his descending person.

      The philosophic and still more the imaginative mind is apt to suppose itself prepared for any mortal accident. Prison, among other ills, was one that had been often faced by the undaunted Arethusa.

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