Fortunately he spoke French like a Frenchman; and, as it
presently appeared, a few words of English.
'What country do you belong to?' he asked, as if the question
was but a matter of form, put for decency's sake - a mere
prelude to committal.
'England, of course; you can see that by my passport.' I was
determined to fence him with his own weapons. Indeed, in
those innocent days of my youth, I enjoyed a genuine British
contempt for foreigners - in the lump - which, after all, is
about as impartial a sentiment as its converse, that one's
own country is always in the wrong.
'Where did you get it?' (with a face of stone).
PRISONER (NAIVELY): 'Where did I get it? I do not follow
you.' (Don't forget, please, that said prisoner's apparel
was unvaleted, his hands unwashed, his linen unchanged, his
hair unkempt, and his face unshaven).
GENERAL (stonily): '"Where did you get it?" was my question.'
PRISONER (quietly): 'From Lord Palmerston.'
GENERAL (glancing at that Minister's signature): 'It says
here, "et son domestique" - you have no domestique.'
PRISONER (calmly): 'Pardon me, I have a domestic.'
GENERAL (with severity), 'Where is he?'
PRISONER: 'At Dresden by this time, I hope.'
GENERAL (receiving journal from aide-de-camp, who points to a
certain page): 'You state here you were caught by the
Austrians in a pretended escape from the Viennese insurgents;
and add, "They evidently took me for a spy" [returning
journal to aide]. What is your explanation of this?'
PRISONER (shrugging shoulders disdainfully): 'In the first
place, the word "pretended" is not in my journal.
