At five o’clock in the morning I was fast asleep in my carriage, when I was suddenly awakened.  We were at the gate of Amiens.  The fellow at the door was an exciseman—­a race everywhere detested and with good cause, for besides the insolence of their manners nothing makes a man feel more like a slave than the inquisitorial search they are accustomed to make through one’s clothes and most secret possessions.  He asked me if I had anything contraband; and being in a bad temper at being deprived of my sleep to answer such a question I replied with an oath that I had nothing of the sort, and that he would have done better to let me sleep.

“As you talk in that style,” said the creature, “we will see what we can see.”

He ordered the postillion to pass on with the carriage.  He had my luggage hauled down, and not being able to hinder him I fumed in silence.

I saw my mistake, but there was nothing to be done; and having no contraband goods I had nothing to fear, but my bad temper cost me two weary hours of delay.  The joys of vengeance were depicted on the features of the exciseman.  At the time of which I am writing these gaugers were the dregs of the people, but would become tractable on being treated with a little politeness.  The sum of twenty-four sous given with good grace would make them as supple as a pair of gloves; they would bow to the travellers, wish them a pleasant journey, and give no trouble.  I knew all this, but there are times when a man acts mechanically as I had done, unfortunately.

The scoundrels emptied my boxes and unfolded everything even to my shirts, between which they said I might have concealed English lace.

After searching everything they gave me back my keys, but they had not yet done with us; they began to search my carriage.  The rascal who was at the head of them began to shout “victory,” he had discovered the remainder of a pound of snuff which I had bought at St. Omer on my way to Dunkirk.

With a voice of triumph the chief exciseman gave orders that my carriage should be seized, and warned me that I would have to pay a fine of twelve hundred francs.

For the nonce my patience was exhausted, and I leave the names I called them to the imagination of the reader; but they were proof against words.  I told them to take me to the superintendent’s.

“You can go if you like,” said they, “we are not your servants.”

Surrounded by a curious crowd, whom the noise had drawn together, I began to walk hurriedly towards the town, and entering the first open shop I came to, I begged the shopkeeper to take me to the superintendent’s.  As I was telling the circumstances of the case, a man of good appearance, who happened to be in the shop, said that he would be glad to show me the way himself, though he did not think I should find the superintendent in, as he would doubtless be warned of my coming.

“Without your paying either the fine or caution money,” said he, “you will find it a hard matter to get yourself out of the difficulty.”