'You lie: and you can be punished for such lies, since you are an
official.' For though the police are the same in all countries, and
will swear black is white, and destroy men for a song, yet where there
is a _droit administratif-_ that is, where the Revolution has made
things tolerable - you are much surer of punishing your policeman, and
he is much less able to do you a damage than in England or America;
for he counts as an official and is under a more public discipline and
responsibility if he exceeds his powers.
Then I added, speaking distinctly, 'I can speak French and Latin. Have
you a priest in Calestano, and does he know Latin?'
This was a fine touch. They winced, and parried it by saying that the
Sindaco knew French. Then they led me away to their barracks while
they fetched the Sindaco, and so I was imprisoned.
But not for long. Very soon I was again following up the street, and
we came to the house of the Sindaco or Mayor. There he was, an old man
with white hair, God bless him, playing cards with his son and
daughter. To him therefore, as understanding French, I was bidden
address myself. I told him in clear and exact idiom that his policemen
were fools, that his town was a rabbit-warren, and his prison the only
cleanly thing in it; that half-a-dozen telegrams to places I could
indicate would show where I had passed; that I was a common tourist,
not even an artist (as my sketch-book showed), and that my cards gave
my exact address and description.
But the Sindaco, the French-speaking Sindaco, understood me not in the
least, and it seemed a wicked thing in me to expose him in his old
age, so I waited till he spoke. He spoke a word common to all
languages, and one he had just caught from my lips.
'Tourist-e?' he said.
I nodded. Then he told them to let me go. It was as simple as that;
and to this day, I suppose, he passes for a very bilingual Mayor. He
did me a service, and I am willing to believe that in his youth he
smacked his lips over the subtle flavour of Voltaire, but I fear
to-day he would have a poor time with Anatole France.
What a contrast was there between the hour when I had gone out of the
cafe a prisoner and that when I returned rejoicing with a crowd about
me, proclaiming my innocence, and shouting one to another that I was a
tourist and had seventy-three lira on my person!
