The jailer found the conversation of his prisoner so agreeable that he remained until François had finished the beef. The potatoes he refused to touch.
“I am taking a great risk of indigestion in eating this tough meat,” he said, “but it would be tempting fate to touch those potatoes.”
The jailer went out, repeating that he was sorry that six o’clock would end their acquaintance.
Through the small, heavily barred windows looking westward, François could hear the roar of the battle in the city, the distant, incessant thunder of the guns, and see the great waves of flame and smoke from the burning city drifting slowly in the stagnant air. A dun light that was not day nor night lay over Paris, and, although it was but a little after five o’clock, the whitewashed cell was dusky.
François continued cheerfully absorbed in his poetic composition. When he reached the fourth line and made a period, he stood off and read his verses with even more than the average satisfaction of a poet.
“There may be time,” he said to himself aloud, “to write another verse, so here goes.”
He then began another line, and wrote three and a half lines more. At this point, while François was deeply reflecting on a word, the key was turned in the door which was flung open, and the jailer, with a couple of deputies, was standing outside.
“Very sorry, sir,” said the jailer, “but the time is up.”
“I can only say,” replied François, “that your visit is most inopportune. I am just in the midst of the best line in my poem. Like everything else, the Commune annoys everybody. Seven o’clock for my exit would not have hurt the Commune, and would have enabled me to finish my poem. Listen, and if you have any poetic instinct, you will agree that this is the finest thing since Rouget de Lisle.”
The jailer knew no more about Rouget de Lisle than he did about Lucullus, and frankly said so.