Holding my breath, and trying to still the beatings of my heart, I
creep close to the sleeping man, and lay my hand gently on the hat.
He makes no sign, and the next moment the hat is under my capote. Now
the revolver! I lay hold of the butt, and try to draw it from the
gendarme's belt. It does not come out easily—I pull again—pull a second
time, and am preparing to pull a third time, when the snoring suddenly
ceases.
Quick as thought, I shrink into my corner, breathe deeply and pretend
to sleep. The gendarme rouses himself, mutters, and passes his hand
over his head. Then he searches all about him, and, evidently alarmed
by the loss of his hat, he sleeps no more.
“Hallo, brother!” I say, “you seem to have lost your hat.”
“I am afraid I have, sir,” he answers in a puzzled voice, at the same
time scratching his head by way, probably, of keeping it warm.
“You see what it is to sleep on the road, my friend! Suppose, now, I
had slipped out of the carriage! Nothing would have been easier.”
“Oh, but you never thought of such a thing, and I am sure you would not
do it, sir.”
“But why?” I ask.
“Because I have done you no harm, and you do not want to get a poor
fellow into trouble! You know yourself how severely gendarmes are dealt
with who let their prisoners escape.”
“Very well, brother, here is your hat which I found and hid—just to
frighten you a bit.”
Just then we reached another station, and the poor fellow as he put on
his head-gear thanked me quite pathetically, as much for not running
away as for restoring his property.