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. By treason I refer to
any little annoying habits of independent thought or action which _en
temps de guerre_ are put in a hole and covered over, with the somewhat
naive idea that from their cadavers violets will grow, whereof the
perfume will delight all good men and true and make such worthy citizens
forget their sorrows. Fort Leavenworth, for instance, emanates even now a
perfume which is utterly delightful to certain Americans. Just how many
La Fertes France boasted (and for all I know may still boast) God Himself
knows. At least, in that Republic, amnesty has been proclaimed, or so I
hear.--But to return to the Surveillants remark.