“Straight ahead” he said angrily.
I proceeded. “Left!” he cried. I turned. A door confronted me.
“_Entrez_,” he commanded. I did. An unremarkable looking gentleman in a
French uniform, sitting at a sort of table. “_Monsieur le médecin, le
nouveau._” The doctor got up. “Open your shirt.” I did. “Take down your
pants.” I did. “All right.” Then, as the _planton_ was about to escort
me from the room: “English?” he asked with curiosity. “No” I said,
“American.” “_Vraiment_”—he contemplated me with attention. “South
American are you?” “United States” I explained. “_Vraiment_”—he looked
curiously at me, not disagreeably in the least. “_Pourquoi vous êtes
ici?_” “I don’t know” I said smiling pleasantly, “except that my friend
wrote some letters which were intercepted by the French censor.” “Ah,”
he remarked. “_C’est tout._”
And I departed. “Proceed!” cried the Black Holster. I retraced my
steps, and was about to exit through the door leading to the _cour_,
when “Stop! _Nom de Dieu!_ Proceed!”