DEAR PUNCHINELLO: I concluded I would leave Paris for Tours last week,
as the refusal of Life Insurance Companies to take war risks made me
apprehensive for the temporal welfare of the youthful TINTOS in case I
should be untimely called hence. It was a wise resolution, but a few
trifling obstacles, to which I shall refer, prevented me from carrying
it out.
WASHBURNE advised me, as the safest means of escape, to adopt the
character of an American tourist, with which disguise he thought the
Gallic cast of my features would not materially interfere. I took the
hint, and, assuming my scrip and staff, set forth by way of the Neuilly
gate towards Courbevoie. It was after nightfall when I reached the
bridge that crosses the Seine in that neighborhood. A _garde mobile_ was
pacing over the crest of the slight acclivity that rises near its
eastern extremity.
As I approached he came to a halt, and challenged me sharply.
_"Qui va là?"_
_"C'est moi,"_ I answered, (with a very decent accent which I had
cultivated by the daily use of a mild decoction of alum-water--an
application which I can cordially recommend to Americans who do not
naturally possess that peculiar "pucker" of the lips essential to the
correct pronunciation of the French language.)
_"C'est moi, mon ami,"_ I repeated.
"The countersign," said the _garde_.
"What countersign?" said I, remembering to my consternation that I had
forgotten to secure that important credential.
The sentry brought his piece to that position which usually precedes the
order "Take aim." I got back a few feet--the situation was too close.
_"Mon ami,"_ I ventured to observe, "that ain't the way we treat
noncombatants in America."
"The countersign," reiterated the _garde_, still holding his _chassepot_
in the previous threatening manner.
I looked up. The stars were in the quiet sky, and the new moon was just
sinking beneath the bold outline of Mount Valerien. The surge of the
Seine against the stone piers of the bridge could be distinctly heard.
The scene was unspeakably tranquil, not to say mournful, and I said to
myself, "Is this a night for assassination?"
Again I looked up, and I saw the gleam of two more bayonets at the other
end of the bridge. Thereupon I said to myself, "This is not a night for
assassination."
"The countersign," for the third time, proceeded from the armed Apollyon
in front of me. I grew familiar.
"Come now, my good friend, this little business of mine requires some
dispatch. During the war in America--"
The click of the hammer of the sentry's rifle interrupted me. I felt
uncomfortable. I had been out in the night air many times before, but I
never knew it to be so disagreeably chilly. It climbed in behind my
shirt collar, travelled down my back with a shivering sensation, and
culminated in a regular ague when it reached my knees. With a terrific
effort I calmed myself, and opened on the soldiers again. "During the
war in America--" There are occasions in a man's lifetime when the mere
fact of his tongue cleaving unexpectedly to the roof of his mouth is no
evidence of cowardice. I had unquestionably reached that eventful period
of my existence, but I also possessed physical energy to try once more.
"My good, kind friend, I was going to say that during the war in
America--"
"Oh! d--n your war in America!" roared the sentry, levelling his
rifle full at me.
There is no American living who would sooner resent an insult to his
native land than myself, and at such a crisis I felt that within me
which might rise at any moment and crush the foul calumniator. But I
reasoned to myself that I would not take the life of this man, now. I
would wait awhile. It was only too evident he was angry, and he might
cool off and apologize. Yes, that was the best course for me to pursue.
Accordingly I ran rapidly over in my mind a little speech, and, turning
to him, spoke thus:
"Rash, impetuous man--"