Once in Precigne you were "in" for
good and all, _pour la duree de la guerre_, which _duree_ was a subject
of occasional and dismal speculation--occasional for reasons, as I have
mentioned, of mental health; dismal for unreasons of diet, privation,
filth, and other trifles. La Ferte was, then, a stepping stone either to
freedom or to Precigne. But the excellent and inimitable and altogether
benignant French Government was not satisfied with its own generosity in
presenting one merely with Precigne--beyond that lurked a _cauchemar_
called by the singularly poetic name: Isle de Groix. A man who went to
Isle de Groix was done.
As the Surveillant said to us all, leaning out of a littlish window, and
to me personally upon occasion--
"You are not prisoners. Oh, no. No indeed, I should say not. Prisoners
are not treated like this. You are lucky."
I had _de la chance_ all right, but that was something which the _pauvre_
M. Surveillant wot altogether not of. As for my fellow-prisoners, I am
sorry to say that he was--it seems to my humble personality--quite wrong.
For who was eligible to La Ferte? Anyone whom the police could find in
the lovely country of France (a) who was not guilty--of treason (b) who
could not prove that he was not guilty of treason.
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