“What are you doing here—tell me at once,” the speaker repeated, in a bullying tone.
I suppose we did look disreputable, standing there without collars, with unlaced boots, and with our coat collars turned up. Also a day’s growth of beard is hardly conducive to a smart appearance, and in most civilised countries but America a man is judged by his appearance and by the clothes he wears.
“Who set fire to the château?” demanded the gendarme, quickly losing his temper as we refused to speak.
“Oh, we did, of course,” I exclaimed in French, meaning to be cynical. “We burnt it down on purpose.”
The man raised his black eyebrows, and glanced at his companion.
“You hear that?” he said meaningly.
The man who had remained silent produced a notebook and scribbled in it.
Faulkner turned to me.
“A few more of your ‘witticisms’ Ashton,” he said, “and we shall get penal servitude. Don’t you know you are talking to State officials, and have you ever known a State official to be other than matter-of-fact? For Heaven’s sake, don’t make more statements that may be used in evidence against us.”
“My friend was joking,” Faulkner said in his perfect French to the man who had addressed us; but the official seemed not to understand what the word plaisanterie meant.