I guessed at once that he was a police officer in mufti, and that it was not for anything particularly agreeable to me that he stopped me thus. Thinking that perhaps he did not know that my papers were quite in order, I pulled out my police pass and shewed it to him; but this was not what he meant.
With the old time garrulity of the Italian, and unctiously wringing his hands as though he was in mental distress, he made me understand that it was very distasteful to him to have to interrupt my walk, but it was merely for a few moments, when I should be free to resume it, and he would again offer me his sincere apologies for venturing to accost me, but it was of sufficient importance for him to urge me to go with him now, as I was expected and being waited for. This is what I gathered from the few words I understood of all this verbosity.
Just at this moment, as luck would have it, someone I knew came along. He spoke a little French, so I asked him to tell me what it all meant. It was as I had guessed: this was an Agent de la Sureté, and I had to go with him to the police station at once for reasons which would be explained when I got there.
Of course there was no arguing the matter; I realised that it was all mock politeness I had been treated with, and that if I made any objection I should be spoken to very differently. At the station I was asked to produce “all my papers and my passport”; these were taken into an adjoining room. In a few minutes they were returned to me, and I was informed that I would hear further in the matter. Whereupon I was allowed to go, much mystified as to what was going to happen next.
The following morning a note was left at my Hotel to the effect that at 10 o’clock I was called upon to present myself again with “all my papers and my passport” at the police station, accompanied by someone to interpret for me. A young fellow who spoke French fairly well consented to accompany me.
I was taken before the Commissaire, the one who had given me the permis de séjour, and two other officials, who began to ply me with questions as to how I came to be in Udine, what I came for, and how long I had been there, together with a lot of other questions which were very irritating since the Commissaire knew all about me already, as he had his own signature before him on my papers.
There was a short conversation between the Commissaire and the officials, who looked towards me meanwhile in a friendly manner as I thought. I was soon to be undeceived though. They then turned to my interpreter and announced the upshot of these mysterious happenings.
“Well, what’s the result of all these proceedings?” I asked him.
“You are to be sent to Novara,” he replied unconcernedly.
“Be sent to Novara,” I repeated in amazement. “Where’s Novara?”