St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in EnglandStevenson, Robert Louis
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St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England
Stevenson, Robert Louis
French -- England -- Fiction; Prisoners of war -- Fiction
I took this attitude in sheer despair. I had no plan, no hope. The best
I could imagine was to spin the business out some minutes longer, then
capitulate. At least, I would not capituatle one moment too soon.
‘Am I to take that for _no_?’ he asked.
‘Referring to your former obliging proposal?’ said I. ‘My good sir, you
are to take it, as you say, for “No.” Certainly I will not show you my
deeds; certainly I will not rise from table and trundle out to see your
magistrates. I have too much respect for my digestion, and too little
curiosity in justices of the peace.’
He leaned forward, looked me nearly in the face, and reached out one hand
to the bell-rope. ‘See here, my fine fellow!’ said he. ‘Do you see that
bell-rope? Let me tell you, there’s a boy waiting below: one jingle, and
he goes to fetch the constable.’
‘Do you tell me so?’ said I. ‘Well, there’s no accounting for tastes! I
have a prejudice against the society of constables, but if it is your
fancy to have one in for the dessert—’ I shrugged my shoulders lightly.
‘Really, you know,’ I added, ‘this is vastly entertaining. I assure you,
I am looking on, with all the interest of a man of the world, at the
development of your highly original character.’
He continued to study my face without speech, his hand still on the
button of the bell-rope, his eyes in mine; this was the decisive heat.
My face seemed to myself to dislimn under his gaze, my expression to
change, the smile (with which I had began) to degenerate into the grin of
the man upon the rack. I was besides harassed with doubts. An innocent
man, I argued, would have resented the fellow’s impudence an hour ago;
and by my continued endurance of the ordeal, I was simply signing and
sealing my confession; in short, I had reached the end of my powers.
‘Have you any objection to my putting my hands in my breeches pockets?’ I
inquired. ‘Excuse me mentioning it, but you showed yourself so extremely
nervous a moment back.’ My voice was not all I could have wished, but it
sufficed. I could hear it tremble, but the landlord apparently could
not. He turned away and drew a long breath, and you may be sure I was
quick to follow his example.
‘You’re a cool hand at least, and that’s the sort I like,’ said he. ‘Be
you what you please, I’ll deal square. I’ll take the chaise for a
hundred pound down, and throw the dinner in.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ I cried, wholly mystified by this form of words.
‘You pay me a hundred down,’ he repeated, ‘and I’ll take the chaise.
It’s very little more than it cost,’ he added, with a grin, ‘and you know
you must get it off your hands somehow.’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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