y, &c. &c. &c." But the gensdarmes looked in vain
for the signalement, the personal description of the bearer, which they
considered the very essence of a respectable passport; and so they
refused to "allow me to pass freely without let or hindrance." (You see
I have the old friend of a document still, and am quoting from it.) In
fact they invited us to follow them to the town we had started from in
the morning. To this we demurred, and it was not without some difficulty
that we persuaded them to run us in in the other direction, only
succeeding when Dupont said he had an uncle in the gensdarmerie, who had
often told him that the men were so badly paid, that they could not make
both ends meet, were it not for an occasional tip from those interested
in securing their good offices.

In due time we were marched into a pleasant little town--I forget its
name--our captors following close on our heels. We were taken to
headquarters and detained, as nobody there could make head or tail of
Baron Hyde of Hindon's rescript. It was taken to Monsieur le Maire,
before whom we were shortly summoned to appear. He received us
courteously.

"I have no doubt, monsieur," he said to me, "that the passport is in
perfect order, but I should like to see your signature and any other
papers you may have about you that may establish your identity." I
produced a washing bill, and the last letter I had received from my
father. He looked at these and then selected a thick-set volume from the
bookcase. "Mo-sche-les," he said, as he turned over the pages, evidently
to assure himself whether my name figured in the register of criminals.
Then, turning an inquisitorial eye on me, he sat down to cross-question
me, his fingers all the while beating a little bureaucratic tattoo on
his knees. I felt as innocent as ever I had felt in my life, and strong
in my reliance on Baron Hyde and the British fleet.

"So you are an Englishman?" he asked. "And where was your father born?"
"In Prague," I answered. "Quite right," he said, with a glance at the
book; "in Prague, in 1794. You are the man;" and before I could say
anything, he had got up, and calling to a young lady in the next room,
he said, "Just come here, my dear, and look. This is Moscheles'
handwriting. Is it not a curious coincidence, just when you are studying
the Rondo brillant and the Sonata? This is Monsieur Felix Moscheles, his
son.--My daughter, Mademoiselle Julie, messieurs."

It was a very pl