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 detestez 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.
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