“Naturally—naturally.”
“And, for my papers”....
“I wish to heaven they had said nothing about them!” interrupted my father, impatiently.
“Thanks. 'Tis a petty tyranny; but it cannot be helped. Since, however, you are instructed to seize them, here they are. They contain neither political nor private matter—as you will see.”
“I shall see nothing of the kind, Monsieur Maurice,” said my father. “I would not read a line of them for a marshal's bâton. The King must make a gaoler of me, if it so pleases him; but not a spy. I shall seal up the papers and send them to Berlin.”
“And I shall never see my manuscript again!” said Monsieur Maurice, with a sigh. “Well—it was my first attempt at authorship—perhaps, my last—and there is an end to it!”
My father ground some new and tremendous oath between his teeth.
“I hate to take it, Monsieur Maurice,” he said. “'Tis an odious office.”
“The office alone is yours, Colonel Bernhard,” said the prisoner, with all a Frenchman's grace. “The odium rests with those who impose it on you.”
Hereupon they exchanged formal salutations; and my father, having warned me not to be late for our mid-day meal, put the papers in his pocket, and left me to take my daily French lesson.