On that first afternoon of our acquaintance I found him courteous before lunch, genial after (I took care to “make him proud.” as the English say). I was perfectly frank; told him my true name, the plot that had miscarried, my flight to England—everything.
“I am not Bunyan, I am not even Cellarini, but merely Augustine d'Haricot, eternally at your service,” I said. “You have saved me from prison, perhaps from the scaffold.”
He laughed.
“It wouldn't have been as bad as that, but I'm glad to have been of any use.”
And then changing the subject, as an Englishman does when complimented (for they hold that either you lie and are a knave, or tell the truth and are a fool), he asked:
“What are you going to do now?”
“That depends upon your advice,” I replied. “What is my danger? How wise is it to move freely in this country?”
“There is no danger at all if it is only a political offence,” he answered. “Unless you've been picking pockets, or anything else as well.”
I answered him I had not, and he promised to inquire into the case and give me a full assurance on the next morning.
“And now,” I said, “tell me, my friend, how to live as an Englishman. I do not mean to adopt the English mind, the English sentiment, but only to move in your world, so long as I must live in it. I want to see, I want to hear, I want to record my impressions and my adventures. As the time is not ripe to wield the sword, I shall wield the eyes and the pen. Also, I shall doubtless fall in love, and I should like to hunt a fox and shoot a pheasant.”