Suddenly we ran out of the bewildering lights and shadows, woven across our way by the moon, into the lights of a town; and two _douaniers_ appeared in the road, holding up their hands for us to stop. Down jumped Terry to see why he should be challenged in this unexpected place, and the Prince joined him. "Your papers, if you please," demanded the official. Terry produced those which had been given us at the custom-house in Grimaldi. "But these are Italian papers. Where are those for France?" asked the _douanier_. "This is not France," said the Prince, before Terry could speak. "It is Breil, and it is France," returned the man. "France for nine kilometres, until Fontan, where Italian territory begins again." Terry laughed, rather ruefully. "Well," said he, "I have no French papers, but we paid a penny at the Pont St. Louis to leave France. This car is French, and we ought not to pay anything to enter; nevertheless, I shall be delighted to hand you the same sum for the privilege of coming in again." "Ah, you paid ten centimes? Then, if you have the receipt it may be possible to permit you to go on." "Permit us to go on!" echoed Dalmar-Kalm angrily. "I should think so, indeed." "I'm sorry, I took no receipt," said Terry. "I thought it an unnecessary formality." "_No_ formality is unnecessary, monsieur," said the servant of form. "I also am sorry, but in the circumstances you cannot enter French territory without a receipt for the ten centimes. As a man I believe implicitly that you paid the sum, as an official I am compelled to doubt your word." Who but a Frenchman could have been so exquisitely pompous over a penny? I saw by Terry's face that he was far from considering the incident closed; but he had too much true Irish tact to try and get us through by storming. "Let us consider," he began, "whether there is not some means of escape from this difficulty." But Dalmar-Kalm was in no mood to temporize, or keep silent while others temporized. The lights of Breil showed that it was a town of comparative importance; it was past eight o'clock; and no doubt His Highness's temper was sharpened by a keen edge of hunger. That he--he should be stopped by a fussy official figure-head almost within smell of food, broke down the barrier of his self-restraint--never a formidable rampart, as we had cause to know. In a few loud and vigorous sentences he expressed a withering contempt for France, its institutions, its customs, and especially its custom-houses. "If you'd mix up the Prince's initials, as you do Mr. Barrymore's sometimes, and call him Kalmar-Dalm, there'd be some excuse for it," Beechy Kidder murmured to the Countess. "Hush, he'll hear!" implored the much-enduring lady, but there was small danger that His Highness would hear any expostulations save his own.