CHAPTER XII
THE CLEVERNESS OF STUPIDITY
Let us in imagination pass over sixty leagues of space and two weeks of time, and return to Calais toward the close of November, 1557.
Twenty-five days had not elapsed since Vicomte d'Exmès's departure when a messenger from him presented himself at the gates of the English city.
This man asked to be taken to the governor, Lord Wentworth, that he might place in his hands the ransom of his former prisoner.
This messenger seemed to be extremely awkward, and very imprudent; for it was of no use to show him which way to go. Twenty times he passed without entering the great gate which they almost split their throats in their endeavors to point out to him, and he stupidly persisted in knocking at disused posterns and gates; so that the idiot actually made almost the complete circuit of the exterior fortifications of the place.
At last, by dint of directions, each more exact than the last, he consented to allow himself to be put upon the right course; and so great was the power, even in those far-off days, of the magic words, "I have ten thorn sand crowns for the governor," that as soon as rigorous precautions had been observed, and the man had been searched, and Lord Wentworth's orders taken, the bearer of so considerable a sum was readily allowed to enter the city.
Decidedly the Golden Age is the only one in history that was not an age of money!
This stupid envoy of Gabriel lost his way again more than once in the streets of Calais before he succeeded in finding the governor's mansion, which was pointed out to him, however, every hundred paces by some compassionate soul. He seemed to have an idea that he ought to ask every party of guards that he met where he could find Lord Wentworth, and then he would hasten in the direction indicated.
After wasting an hour in traversing a space which should have occupied ten minutes at most, he succeeded at last in reaching the governor's residence.