The culprit remaining silent under this home-thrust, the Commissary relished his triumph for a while, and then demanded (like the postman, but with what different expectations!) to see the contents of the knapsack. And here the _Arethusa_, not yet sufficiently awake to his position, fell into a grave mistake. There was little or no furniture in the room except the Commissary's chair and table; and to facilitate matters, the _Arethusa_ (with all the innocence on earth) leant the knapsack on a corner of the bed. The Commissary fairly bounded from his seat; his face and neck flushed past purple, almost into blue; and he screamed to lay the desecrating object on the floor. The knapsack proved to contain a change of shirts, of shoes, of socks, and of linen trousers, a small dressing-case, a piece of soap in one of the shoes, two volumes of the _Collection Jannet_ lettered "Poesies de Charles d'Orleans," a map, and a version-book containing divers notes in prose and the remarkable English roundels of the voyager, still to this day unpublished: the Commissary of Chatillon is the only living man who has clapped an eye on these artistic trifles. He turned the assortment over with a contumelious finger; it was plain from his daintiness that he regarded the _Arethusa_ and all his belongings as the very temple of infection. Still there was nothing suspicious about the map, nothing really criminal except the roundels; as for Charles of Orleans, to the ignorant mind of the prisoner, he seemed as good as a certificate; and it was supposed the farce was nearly over. The inquisitor resumed his seat. _The Commissary (after a pause):_ "_Eh bien, je vais_ _vous dire ce que vous etes. Vous etes allemand el vous venez chanter a la foire._" (Well, then, I will tell you what you are. You are a German, and have come to sing at the fair.) _The Arethusa:_ "Would you like to hear me sing? I believe I could convince you of the contrary." _The Commissary:_ "_Pas de plaisanterie, monsieur_!" _The Arethusa:_ "Well, sir, oblige me at least by looking at this book. Here, I open it with my eyes shut. Read one of these songs--read this one--and tell me, you who are a man of intelligence, if it would be possible to sing it at a fair?" _The Commissary (critically):_ "_Mais oui. Tres bien._" _The Arethusa:_ "_Comment, monsieur!_ What! But do you not observe it is antique? It is difficult to understand, even for you and me; but for the audience at a fair, it would be meaningless." _The Commissary (taking a pen):_ "_Enfin, il faut en finir._ What is your name?" _The Arethusa (speaking with the swallowing vivacity of the English):_ "Robert-Louis-Stev'ns'n." _The Commissary (aghast):_ "_He! Quoi?_" _The Arethusa (perceiving and improving his advantage):_ "Rob'rt-Lou's-Stev'ns'n." _The Commissary (after several conflicts with his pen):_ "_Eh bien, il faut se passer du nom. Ca ne s'ecrit pas._" (Well, we must do without the name: it is unspellable.)