"'But you may,' said he, persisting in his first reply. 'You may
if you choose.'
"'And I may take salt to my pickled herring if I choose.[1] But I
do not choose.'
"'But you must pay for it, whether you do or no.'
"'Ay, for the salt,' said I, 'I know.'
"'And for the post, too,' added he.
"'Defend me!' cried I. 'I travel by water. I am going down the Rhone this very afternoon; my baggage is in the boat, and I have actually paid nine livres for my passage.'
"'C'est tout égal—'tis all one,' said he.
"'Bon Dieu! What! pay for the way I go and for the way I do not go?'
"'C'est tout égal,' replied the commissary.
"'The devil it is!' said I. 'But I will go to ten thousand Bastilles first. O, England! England! thou land of liberty and climate of good-sense! thou tenderest of mothers and gentlest of nurses!' cried I, kneeling upon one knee as I was beginning my apostrophe—when the director of Madame L. Blanc's conscience coming in at that instant, and seeing a person in black, with a face as pale as ashes, at his devotions, asked if I stood in want of the aids of the Church.