Lieutenant A. couldn’t understand advised us to do so.” 

 Following up this sortie, I addressed the mustache: “Write this down in the testimony—that I, here present, refuse utterly to believe that my friend is not as sincere a lover of France and the French people as any man living!—Tell him to write it,” I commanded Noyon stonily. But Noyon shook his head, saying: “We have the very best reason for supposing your friend to be no friend of France.” I answered: “That is not my affair. I want my opinion of my friend written in; do you see?” “That’s reasonable,” the rosette murmured; and the moustache wrote it down. 

 “Why do you think we volunteered?” I asked sarcastically, when the testimony was complete. 

 Monsieur le Ministre was evidently rather uncomfortable. He writhed a little in his chair, and tweaked his chin three or four times. The rosette and the moustache were exchanging animated phrases. At last Noyon, motioning for silence and speaking in an almost desperate tone, demanded: 

 “Est-ce-que vous détestez les boches?” 

 I had won my own case. The question was purely perfunctory. To walk out of the room a free man I had merely to say yes. My examiners were sure of my answer. The rosette was leaning forward and smiling encouragingly. The moustache was making little ouis in the air with his pen. And Noyon had given up all hope of making me out a criminal. I might be rash, but I was innocent; the dupe of a superior and malign intelligence. I would probably be admonished to choose my friends more carefully next time and that would be all…. 

 Deliberately, I framed the answer: 

 “Non. J’aime beaucoup les français.” 

 Agile as a weasel, Monsieur le Ministre was on top of me: “It is impossible to love Frenchmen and not to hate Germans.” 

 I did not mind his triumph in the least. The discomfiture of the rosette merely amused me. The surprise of the moustache I found very pleasant. 

 Poor rosette! He kept murmuring desperately: “Fond of his friend, quite right. Mistaken of course, too bad, meant well.” 

 With a supremely disagreeable expression on his immaculate face the victorious minister of security pressed his victim with regained assurance: “But you are doubtless aware of the atrocities committed by the boches?” 

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