“Pardon me, monsieur; that is merely the license of the verse—a dangerous thing to translate into plain prose.”
“I do not seize the distinction, monsieur.”
“You are probably not qualified to judge of either one or the other, M. Prévost.”
“Possibly not, M. le Lieutenant, but I am qualified to judge of the persons I will admit within my doors; and, 'in plain prose,' I would wish you to understand you are no longer one of them.”
“M. le Commissaire, your meaning is as plain as is your manner; nothing could be more unqualified, and I regret my inability to answer it in the same fashion,” I returned, not without a certain appreciation of his handling of the situation.
“Madame,” I said to his lady, who had preserved an admirable composure throughout this passage at arms, “I owe you a thousand thanks for your kindness, and a thousand regrets should I be the cause of any misunderstanding between you and your husband;” whereupon I raised her hand, and kissing it ceremoniously, I effected a not undignified retreat.
So the summer of '57 dragged on, when one warm afternoon in September—it was the 25th of the month—I wandered down to the landing-place to see the arrival of a ship from France that had slipped through the feeble blockade attempted by the English. I lazily watched the captain and others disembark with an uninterested eye until among them I caught sight of a lad of about fifteen years, whose dress and countenance were certainly English. As he came up with the others I advanced, and laying my hand on his shoulder, said,
“You are not French, my lad?”
“Oh no, sir,” he answered, looking full at me with an open, engaging smile; “I am English.”
“I thought so. What is your name?”