“Well, then, the sooner I go the better. I will take with me the Spanish Capataz. As soon as we have gone in, be so kind as to keep an eye on the entrance. If Señor Roque puts his head out, send me three or four dismounted dragoons. We must see if we can’t teach those fellows good manners.” I took with me Señor Roque, and explained to him, by the way, what I wished him to do. If, after we entered the bureau of the Mairie, I gave him a look, he was to go down to the door, and bring up the dragoons. We entered; and, as at a previous interview the night before, found three gentlemen busily employed in writing, each at his desk. The interval had wrought no improvement in their manners. When I saluted them, neither of the three took the least notice—all went on writing. I addressed the head man of the party. “I have the honour of waiting on you, Monsieur, for the purpose of soliciting your co-operation.”—Still he writes. Wait awhile. Try again. “I must soon be leaving this place, Monsieur, and have duties which will occupy me in the interval. May I claim a moment’s attention?”—Scribble, scribble, scribble. One or two similar attempts were similarly met. I then gave friend Roque the concerted look; and he, nothing loath, went off to fetch the dragoons. Meanwhile, no seat having been offered me, I took one, and remained quiet. The three official gentlemen, though so dreadfully busy, just before, that they could not notice my application, now began jabbering amongst themselves upon some indifferent topic, as if no one else had been in the room. When a Frenchman really wishes to treat you with insolence, I must say he has a neat, quiet way of doing it, which no other people on earth can equal. An Englishman, I admit, can beat him in vulgarity; but for _elegance_ of execution, there is no intentional rudeness like the rudeness of a Frenchman. Presently was heard on the stairs a stumping—ha!—a hoof-like tread!—the tramp of heavy feet! With it ascended the clatter of accoutrements! Four scabbards were mounting the stairs, each scabbard marking each step by a bang! The three officials started—exchanged looks—wrote on in silence with redoubled energy, while their faces twitched. The door opened! Four big fellows entered the bureau, with clattering accoutrements and resounding steps. Señor Roque, his face burnished with exultation—for he hated the French—followed, and closed the door. The bold dragoons ranged themselves in line, with their backs to the wall. Nay, more: their four right hands, probably by a hint from the Capataz, moved simultaneously towards their left sides; four enormous swords leaped from their scabbards, flashed in the air, and slumbered on the bearers’ shoulders. The writing was now intense. The display of arms in such a place, though, might compromise us with our own authorities. I made a sign, and the swords were sheathed.