“Possibly,” said Monsieur.
This concluded the trial.
Monsieur le Ministre conducted me into room number 1 again. “Since I
have taken your cigarettes and shall keep them for you, I will give you
some tobacco. Do you prefer English or French?”
Because the French (_paquet bleu_) are stronger and because he expected
me to say English, I said “French.”
With a sorrowful expression Noyon went to a sort of bookcase and took
down a blue packet. I think I asked for matches, or else he had given
back the few which he found on my person.
Noyon, t-d and the grand criminal (alias I) now descended solemnly to
the F.I.A.T. The more and more mystified _conducteur_ conveyed us a
short distance to what was obviously a prison-yard. Monsieur le
Ministre watched me descend my voluminous baggage.
This was carefully examined by Monsieur at the _bureau_, of the prison.
Monsieur made me turn everything topsy-turvy and inside out. Monsieur
expressed great surprise at a huge shell: where did I get it?—I said a
French soldier gave it to me as a souvenir.—And several _têtes
d’obus_?—also souvenirs, I assured him merrily. Did Monsieur suppose I
was caught in the act of blowing up the French Government, or what
exactly?—But here are a dozen sketch-books, what is in them?—Oh,
Monsieur, you flatter me: drawings.—Of fortifications? Hardly; of
poilus, children, and other ruins.—Ummmm. (Monsieur examined the
drawings and found that I had spoken the truth.) Monsieur puts all
these trifles into a small bag, with which I had been furnished (in
addition to the huge duffle-bag) by the generous Red Cross. Labels them
(in French): “Articles found in the baggage of Cummings and deemed
_inutile_ to the case at hand.” This leaves in the duffle-bag
aforesaid: my fur coat, which I brought from New York; my bed and
blankets and bed-roll, my civilian clothes, and about twenty-five
pounds of soiled linen. “You may take the bed-roll and the folding bed
into your cell”—the rest of my _affaires_ would remain in safe keeping
at the _bureau_.
“Come with me,” grimly croaked a lank turnkey creature.
Bed-roll and bed in hand, I came along.
We had but a short distance to go; several steps in fact. I remember we
turned a corner and somehow got sight of a sort of square near the
prison. A military band was executing itself to the stolid delight of
some handfuls of ragged _civiles_. My new captor paused a moment;
perhaps his patriotic soul was stirred. Then we traversed an alley with
locked doors on both sides, and stopped in front of the last door on
the right. A key opened it. The music could still be distinctly heard.
The opened door showed a room, about sixteen feet short and four feet
narrow, with a heap of straw in the further end. My spirits had been
steadily recovering from the banality of their examination; and it was
with a genuine and never-to-be-forgotten thrill that I remarked, as I
crossed what might have been the threshold: “_Mais, on est bien ici_.”
A hideous crash nipped the last word. I had supposed the whole prison
to have been utterly destroyed by earthquake, but it was only my door
closing….
II.
EN ROUTE