A polite gendarme threw his shadow on the path.
"Monsieur est voyageur?" he asked.
And the Arethusa, strong in his innocence, forgetful of his vile attire, replied—I had almost said with gaiety: "So it would appear."
"His papers are in order?" said the gendarme. And when the Arethusa, with a slight change of voice, admitted he had none, he was informed (politely enough) that he must appear before the Commissary.
The Commissary sat at a table in his bedroom, stripped to the shirt and trousers, but still copiously perspiring; and when he turned upon the prisoner a large meaningless countenance, that was (like Bardolph's) "all whelks and bubuckles," the dullest might have been prepared for grief. Here was a stupid man, sleepy with the heat and fretful at the interruption, whom neither appeal nor argument could reach.
The Commissary: "You have no papers?"
The Arethusa: "Not here."
The Commissary: "Why?"
The Arethusa: "I have left them behind in my valise."
The Commissary: "You know, however, that it is forbidden to circulate without papers?"