Fortunately, when I was trying for the army, before I failed and went into the militia, I had been for six months with a coach at Dinan, in Brittany, and spoke French well enough for all vulgar purposes; so when the ordinary type of an old soldier, garde champêtre, head appeared at the head of the ladder, bristling with astonishment, I felt more at home with it than perhaps the ordinary British officer, who has only learned his French at Wren’s or Scoone’s, would have done.
“Dîtes donc!” said the amazed man; “je ne vous gêne pas?”
“Du tout!” I replied, “entrez.”
“Mais, nom d’un chien!” he cried, coming into the room. “Qu’est ce que vous faites là?”
“Vous voyez, n’est ce pas? Je me rase.”
“Je le vois bien! et après?”
“Après? Je m’en vais.”
There was a pause while the garde champêtre came alongside, and surveyed me with folded arms.
Tears were in my eyes, for the process was a torture; but I went on with it heroically and in silence.
At last, “Vous êtes Américain?” he asked.