ion now with all his dramatic nature,
with his eyes wide open, repeated to me some of the tales of horror
which they had palmed off upon innocent Auguste as spontaneous truth, I
could see, myself, the rigging covered with ice an inch thick; sailors
climbing up ("Ah! _comme ils grimpent,--ils grimpent!_") bare-handed,
their hands freezing to the ropes at every touch, and leaving flesh
behind, "_comme_ if you put your tongue to a lam'post in the winter."
I could see the seamen's backs cut up with lashes for the slightest
offences; I tasted the foul, unwholesome food. I think that Sorel half
believed it all himself,--his imagination was so powerful,--forgetting
that he had paid in silver coin for every word of it. At any rate, the
ruse had been successful. Auguste had been thoroughly scared and had
consented to stay at home, and the most threatening cloud of Sorel's
life had blown over.

Usually, however, Sorel and I talked politics; and to our common
pleasure we generally agreed. Sorel knew very little about the details
of our government, and he would listen to me with the utmost eagerness
while I practised my French upon him, explaining to his wondering mind
the relations of the States to each other and to the general government,
and the system of State and Federal courts. He was very quick, and he
took in the ingenious scheme with great facility. Then he would tell me
about the workings of government in the French villages and departments;
and as he read French papers, he had always something in the way of news
or explanation of recent events. I have since come to believe that he
was exceedingly well informed.

The most singular thing about him to me was how he could cherish on the
one hand such devotion as he plainly did, to France, and on the other
hand such a passionate attachment to the United States. In truth, that
double patriotism is one of the characteristic features of our country.

I could lead him, in twenty minutes, through the whole gamut of emotion,
by talking about Auguste, and then of politics. It was irresistible,
the temptation to lead him out. A word about Auguste, and he would wipe
tears from his eyes. A mention of Gambetta, and the bare idea filled
him with enthusiasm; he was instantly, in imagination, one of a surging
crowd, throwing his hat in the air, or drawing Gambetta's carriage
through the streets of Paris. I had only to speak of Alsace to bring
him to a mood of sullen ugliness and hatred.