I approached the table, waiting like a culprit for the all-powerful
Rigault to look up and notice me.
But he did not; he continued to be occupied with what he was doing. So I ventured to break the ice by saying, "Monsieur, I have come to procure a passport, and here is Mr. Washburn's card (the American Minister) to tell you who I am."
He took the card without condescending to look at it, and went on writing.
Getting impatient at his impertinence, I ventured again to attract his attention, and I said, as politely as possible (and as Mademoiselle could have wished), "Will you not kindly give me this passport, as I wish to leave Paris as soon as possible?"
Thereupon he took up the card, and, affecting the "Marat" style, said,
"Does the citoyenne wish to leave Paris? Pourquoi?"
I answered that I was obliged to leave Paris for different reasons.
He replied, with what he thought a seductive smile, "I should think Paris would be a very attractive place for a pretty woman like yourself."
How could I make him understand that I had come for a passport and not for conversation?
At this moment I confess I began to feel dreadfully nervous, seeing the powerless situation in which I was placed, and I saw in imagination visions of prison-cells, handcuffs, and all the horrors which belong to revolutions. I heard the sonorous clock in the tower strike the hour, and realized that only minutes, not hours, had passed since I had been waiting in this dreadful place.
"Monsieur," I began once more, "I am rather in haste, and would thank you if you would give me my passport."