"John!"—oh, the superciliously grand air of that little mite!—"John, show this person the door!"
Once more in prison.
Another hour's mental rack, another resource—send for the landlord of the Hôtel d'Hollande.
He came.
I fancy I see before me now the paunchy Dutchman, rubbing his fat hands and condoling with me in hybrid accents.
"But now, Herr Engländer, an inspiration!" He approached me, placed his pursy lips to my ears, and whispered: "Offer—delicately as you can—but offer the commissaire a few of your English gold pieces, and see the passport, he return, he come back—vite, quick. Voilà tout."
"Bribe the commissaire?"
"Hush! yes, it is your only chance."
Heavens! what a country! Well might poor Jules rave at the Austrians!
The Dutchman left, and after a few minutes' hesitation, I summoned up courage to knock at the door, which was promptly opened by the officer, who respectfully demanded my requirements.