Fabrizio thought that the serjeant was making a joke at his expense when he addressed him as "General." "You shall pay for this!" he said to himself. He examined the men in plain clothes and watched for a favourable moment to jump down from the carriage and dash across the fields.
The Contessa smiled—a smile of despair, I fancy—then said to the serjeant:
"But, my dear serjeant, is it this boy of sixteen that you take for General Conti?"
"Aren't you the General's daughter?" asked the serjeant.
"Look at my father," said the Contessa, pointing to Fabrizio. The constables went into fits of laughter.
"Show me your passports and don't argue the point," said the serjeant, stung by the general mirth.
"These ladies never take passports to go to Milan," said the coachman with a calm and philosophical air: "they are coming from their castle of Grianta. This lady is the Signora Contessa Pietranera; the other is the Signora Marchesa del Dongo."
The serjeant, completely disconcerted, went forward to the horses' heads and there took counsel with his men. The conference had lasted for fully five minutes when the Contessa asked if the gentlemen would kindly allow the carriage to be moved forward a few yards and stopped in the shade; the heat was overpowering, though it was only eleven o'clock in the morning. Fabrizio, who was looking out most attentively in all directions, seeking a way of escape, saw coming out of a little path through the fields and on to the high road a girl of fourteen or fifteen, who was crying timidly into her handkerchief. She came forward walking between two constables in uniform, and, three paces behind her, also between constables, stalked a tall, lean man who assumed an air of dignity, like a Prefect following a procession.
"Where did you find them?" asked the serjeant, for the moment completely drunk.
"Running away across the fields, with not a sign of a passport about them."