"I think," I said, "that it does not really matter where I came from,
where I am going, or what I am doing here."
I expected to see him throw back his cape and exhibit a sheriff's
badge, or whatever its French equivalent. But he only smiled.
"In that case," he said cheerfully, "I shall wish you a good morning."
"Good-bye," I said coldly. And he took himself off.
I have never solved the mystery of that encounter. Was he merely
curious? Or scraping acquaintance with the only woman he had seen in
months? Or was he as imposing a person as he looked, and did he go
away for a warrant or whatever was necessary, and return to find me
safe in the lap of the British Army?
The canary birds sang, and a porter with a leather apron, having
overcome a national inability to light a fire in the middle of the
day, came to take me to my room. There was an odour of stewing onions
in the air, and soapsuds, and a dog sniffed at me and barked because I
addressed him in English.
And then General Huguet came, friendly and smiling, and speaking
English. And all was well.
Afterward I learned how that same diplomacy which made me comfortable
and at home with him at once has made smooth the relations between the
English and French Armies. It was Chesterfield, wasn't it, who spoke
of _"Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re"?_ That is General Huguet.
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