In the meantime, some of the people of Huiry, interested always in gendarmes, were standing at the top of the hill watching the scene, so I said: "Suppose you come inside and I will answer your questions there," and I opened the door of the salon, and went in.
They hesitated a moment, but decided to follow me. They stood, very stiffly, just inside the door, looking about with curiosity. I sat down at my desk, and made a motion to them to be seated. I did not know whether or not it was correct to ask gendarmes to sit down, but I ventured it. Evidently it was not correct, for they paid no attention to my gesture.
When they were done looking about, they asked me for my papers.
I produced my American passport. They looked at the huge steel- engraved document with great seriousness. I am sure they had never seen one before. It impressed them—as well it might, in comparison with the civil papers of the French government.
They satisfied themselves that the picture affixed was really I—that the name agreed with that on their books. Of course, they could not read a word of it, but they looked wise. Then they asked me for my French papers. I produced my permis de séjour—permitting me to stay in France provided I did not change my residence, and to which was affixed the same photograph as that on my passport; my declaration of my civil situation, duly stamped; and my "immatriculation," a leaf from the register on which all foreigners are written down, just as we would be if admitted to a hospital or an insane asylum.
The two men put their heads together over these documents— examined the signatures and the seals with great gravity—with evident regret to find that I was quite en règle.
Finally they permitted me to put the documents all back in the case in which I carry them.
I thought the scene was over. Not at all. They waited until I shut the case, and replaced it in my bag—and then:
"You live alone?" one asked.
I owned that I did.