"Let us proceed methodically," said the commissary; "five feet five inches (French measure), that is right; brown hair—eye-brows and beard, idem—common forehead—grey eyes—prominent nose—good sized mouth—round chin—full face—good colour—tolerably stout."
"It is he," said the quarter-master, the two gendarmes, and the man of Saint Brice.
"Yes, it is indeed," said the commissary in his turn; "Blue surtout—trowsers of grey casimere—white waistcoat—black cravat."
This was my dress, certainly.
"Well, did I not say so," said the officious guide of the police: "he is one of the robbers!"
The description tallied exactly with mine. But I had stolen nothing; and yet in my situation I could experience all the disquiets of having done so. Perhaps it was a mistake; perhaps also . . . . The party were transported with joy. "Peace!" said the commissary; and turning over the leaf, he continued, "We shall easily recognise his Italian accent. He has besides the thumb of the right hand injured by a shot." I spoke, and showed my right hand, which was in a perfectly sound state. All the party stared; and particularly the man of Saint Brice, who appeared singularly disconcerted: as for me, I felt relieved of an enormous weight. The commissary, whom I questioned in my turn, told me, that on the preceding night a considerable robbery had been committed at Saint Brice. One of the suspected individuals wore clothes similar to mine, and there was a similarity of description. It was to this combination of circumstances, to this strange sport of fortune, that I was indebted for the disagreeable visit which I received. They made excuses, which I accepted with a good grace, very happy at getting off so well; but yet, in the fear of some new catastrophe, I put myself the same evening into a packet-boat, which conveyed me to Paris, whence I started immediately for Arras.
