"A man may be thinking of his home and
friends, his King and country, without
meditating an escape there and then, my good
Lasne," Sir Sidney said with a quiet smile.

"Ah," objected the gaoler, shaking his fat
head, "but you've too many friends in Paris,
citizen prisoner. Your King sends too many
guineas and spies over here. There are
hundreds of them between here and the Rue St.
Antoine at this moment, I'll be bound. Very
kind indeed to think of your friends, but if
you should feel inclined to say bonjour to
them, my only friend would be Charlot (the
public executioner).''

If citizen Lasne could have spoken English,
and have made a pun, he might have said
that that only friend would have cut him.
But he was a stupid fat man, and could do
neither.

"Make your mind easy, my friend," replied
Sir Sidney Smith, "I will promise you not to
escape to-night."

"You promise! then it's all right: you
promise mind," ejaculated citizen Lasne,
joyfully.

"I give you my word."

"Then give me some more wine," cried this
merry fat man. "More Porto, Monsieur
Sparkes, my dear, ho! ho!"

With which he sat down, and held out his
tumbler with his great fat doughy hand, that
looked as if it had just been kneaded, and was
ready for the bakehouse.

"More port, more port," grumbled or
pretended to grumble Mr. Sparkes, filling the
bacchanalian's glass to the brim, "What an
old forty-stomach it is. He blows his windbags
out like a sail. There'll be bellows to
mend before long. Here's more port for
you."

"'Tis good, my friend, 'tis an exquisite
little wine. Yet a little more. A drop—
guggl-gl-gl-gl"—and he continued to drink.

The gaoler knew that Sir Sidney Smith
was a man of inflexible honour and integrity;
that to him his word as a sailor, a knight, a
gentleman, was sacred. So he put the fixed
idea out to grass for a time, and drank more
port.

But port, though an exquisite little wine,
will tell its tale, and have its own way with
a man at last, like labour, like age, like
death. The citizen Lasne became very
talkative indeed, which showed that he was
getting on; then he sang a song, which
showed that he was getting further on; then he
essayed to dance, which showed that he was
getting drunk; then he told a story about a
pig in the South of France, and cried: which
showed that he was very drunk indeed.

"Citizen Commodore," he said all at once,
"would you like to take a walk on the
Boulevard?"

At this strange proposition Sir Sidney
turned his eyes to the barred window. The
rays of the setting sun threw the shadows of
the bars upon the wall: the bright light was
between. And the gentle breeze of the evening
came into the room like the whisper of
an angel.

The hum and murmur of the great city
came up and smote the captive upon the ear,
gently, lovingly, gaily, as though they said,
"Come, why tarry? you are invited." And
the birds were singing outside upon the
gloomy terrace, where the little dauphin used
to walk.

"Monsieur Lasne," answered the Commodore,
stifling a sigh, " there are subjects upon
which it is both unjust and cruel to jest."

"But I'm not jesting."

"But do you really mean to say that you
would consent ..."

"Once more, would you like to take a walk
on the Boulevard?"

"Would you like to take a walk on the
Boulevard? " bawled Sparkes, applying his
mouth to his master's ear, as though he were
deaf.

"If you are speaking seriously," Sir Sidney
said at last, " I can but accept the offer with
the greatest gratitude."

"Seriously, of course I am," replied citizen
Lasne, rising, and shaking off the load of
port wine from his fat form, as though it
were a cloak, and really succeeding in
standing straight. " First, though, let us
make our little conditions. No attempts at
escape."

"Oh, of course not," replied the
Commodore.

"No speaking to any one you meet on the
road. No Muses; no words, gestures; not
a nod, not a wink."

"I promise all this."

"On the word of an honest man."

"On the word of an English gentleman,"
answered the Commodore firmly.

"Come along then," cried the gaoler, as if
perfectly satisfied, linking his arm in that of
his prisoner, and moving towards the door:
"you shall see of what stuff the boulevards
of Paris are made, Citizen Commodore."

Although this fat turnkey had drunk a
prodigious quantity of port wine, he did not
seem, once on his legs, so very much the
worse for liquor. He gave one of his legs a
little pat as if to reproach it for having been
shaky, and took a last gulp of port by way of
a final clench or steadier. Only his little
eyes began to flame and sparkle greatly,
which from the general dulness of his
countenance gave him the appearance of having
an evening party inside his head, and having
had the windows lighted up.

The pair were going out when Citizen
Lasne was aware of Mr. Sparkes, who leaned
against the sideboard with his arms folded,
looking anything but contented with the
general aspect of affairs.

"A citizen who has poured me out so
many tumblers of good wine," said the gaoler,
graciously, " deserves some little consideration
at my hands. Pass your word for him too,