“But then the disgrace of being lodged in the prison all night!”
“As for that,” said the imperturbable Griffin, “in my opinion the prisons will soon be fuller than the hotels in this city; and wherever you and I condescend to take up our quarters becomes de ipso facto respectable.”
“Well, well, Griffin, it’s no use telling you to keep it quiet, but don’t tell the ladies of it at any rate.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Thorne,—I won’t be such a bear as that. But by the way, Gog and Magog, as I’m a sinner, were standing either at or close by Mendoza’s door: they could not be watching for any of them, could they?”
“Never fear,” said Thorne; “Mendoza is very thick with the Government; at all events he was not at the party, and the ladies are sure to be well convoyed.”
Just as they were talking, a messenger came from the Commissary of Police, to summon them to the presence of the Functionary, into whose dread presence they were immediately ushered.
The Commissary—a stout, healthy-looking man about middle age—sat smoking a cigarito, dressed in a red waistcoat, a braided jacket, and a slouching cap with a broad gilt band; from the button-hole of his jacket was the usual red ribbon with the head of Rosas upon it, and the favourite motto which he has caused to be inscribed on the national colours, and over every proclamation, “Vivan los Federales—mucran los salvages imundos ascherosas Unitarios.”[9] He was listening attentively to the information given by a very precise, trim, well-dressed looking youth, if we might call him so, for his dress betokened youth more than his face, which at that moment appeared particularly pale. The conversation, whatever was its nature, appeared to be taken notes of by a clerk, who was sitting near them, and it dropped the moment they entered; whether it was that Thorne, who was the first to enter, had still the sound of Mendoza buzzing in his ears, or that, in the excited state of his nervous system, he was thinking of the frightful scene committed at his doors, certain it is, that on his appearance, Don Felipe Le Brun started and appeared agitated for a moment, and our friend thought he heard the name of Mendoza.
“Sorry to meet you here,” exclaimed Don Felipe, suddenly recovering from his start. “Can I be of any service, sir? If so, command me.”
“I am sorry to meet you here, sir,” said Thorne in German, so as not to be understood by the Commissary, and viewing Le Brun with a keen and inquisitive look—“I am sorry to find that you have such private business in these quarters. Pray, señor,” he continued to the magistrate, who appeared on the point of interrupting him, “do not allow me or my friend to disturb your correspondence with Don Felipe Le Brun.”
“My business with you, Señor Thorne,” said the magistrate, “is confined to giving you the advice, which you may find of use, to keep more orderly hours, and thus you will save the police the trouble of providing you with night-quarters. I have no complaint against you—you may go.”