"No, sir; it is the ordinary rule. You will be able to converse with the sentinel."
"The door will be open, then?"
"Not at all."
"How about the cleanliness of my cell?"
"A soldier will accompany the officer in charge of your dinner, and he will attend to your wants for a trifle."
"May I amuse myself by making architectural plans with the pencil?"
"As much as you like."
"Then will you be good enough to order some paper to be bought for me?"
"With pleasure."
The officer seemed to pity me as he left me, and bolted and barred the heavy door behind which I saw a man standing sentry with his bayonet fixed. The door was fitted with a small iron grating.
When I got my paper and my dinner at noonday the officer cut open a fowl, and plunged a fork in the other dishes so as to make sure that there were no papers at the bottom.
My dinner would have sufficed for six people. I told the officer that I
should be much honoured by his dining with me, but he replied that it was strictly forbidden. He gave me the same answer when I asked if I might have the newspapers.
It was a festival time for the sentinels, as I shared my meals and my good wine with them; and consequently these poor fellows were firmly attached to me.
I was curious to know who was paying for my good cheer, but there was no chance of my finding out, for the waiter from the inn was never allowed to approach my cell.
In this dungeon, where I was imprisoned for forty-two days, I wrote in pencil and without other reference than my memory, my refutation of Amelot de la Houssaye's "History of the Venetian Government."
I was most heartily amused during my imprisonment, and in the following manner:
While I was at Warsaw an Italian named Tadini came to Warsaw. He had an introduction to Tomatis who commended him to me. He called himself an oculist. Tomatis used to give him a dinner now and again, but not being well off in those days I could only give him good words and a cup of coffee when he chanced to come about my breakfast-time.
Tadini talked to everybody about the operations he had performed, and condemned an oculist who had been at Warsaw for twenty years, saying that he did not understand how to extract a cataract, while the other oculist said that Tadini was a charlatan who did not know how the eye was made.
Tadini begged me to speak in his favour to a lady who had had a cataract removed by the Warsaw oculist, only to return again a short time after the operation.
The lady was blind of the one eye, but she could see with the other, and I told Tadini that I did not care to meddle with such a delicate matter.
"I have spoken to the lady," said Tadini, "and I have mentioned your name as a person who will answer for me."
"You have done wrong; in such a matter I would not stand surety for the most learned of men, and I know nothing about your learning."
"But you know I am an oculist."
"I know you were introduced to me as such, but that's all. As a professional man, you should not need anyone's commendation, you should be able to say, 'Operibus credite'. That should be your motto."
Tadini was vexed with my incredulity, and shewed me a number of testimonials, which I might possibly have read, if the first which met my eye had not been from a lady who protested to all and singular that M. Tadini had cured her of amaurosis. At this I laughed in his face and told him to leave me alone.
A few days after I found myself dining with him at the house of the lady with the cataract. She had almost made up her mind to submit to the operation, but as the rascal had mentioned my name, she wanted me to be present at a dispute between Tadini and the other oculist who came in with the dessert.
I disposed myself to listen to the arguments of the two rival professors with considerable pleasure. The Warsaw oculist was a German, but spoke French very well; however, he attacked Tadini in Latin. The Italian checked him by saying that their discourse must be conducted in a language intelligible to the lady, and I agreed with him. It was plain that Tadini did not know a word of Latin.
The German oculist began by admitting that after the operation for cataract there was no chance of the disease returning, but that there was a considerable risk of the crystalline humour evaporating, and the patient being left in a state of total blindness.
Tadini, instead of denying this statement (which was inaccurate), had the folly to take a little box out of his pocket. It contained a number of minute round crystals.
"What's that?" said the old professor.
"A substance which I can place in the cornea to supply the loss of the crystalline matter."
The German went off into a roar of laughter so long and loud that the lady could not help laughing. I should have liked to join them, but I
was ashamed to be thought the patron of this ignorant fellow, so I
preserved a gloomy silence.
Tadini no doubt interpreted my silence as a mark of disapproval of the German's laughter, and thought to better matters by asking me to give my opinion.
"As you want to hear it," said I, "here it is."
"There's a great difference between a tooth and the crystalline humour;
and though you may have succeeded in putting an artificial tooth into a gum, this treatment will not do with the eye."
"Sir, I am not a dentist."
"No, nor an oculist either."
At this the ignorant rascal got up and left the room, and it was decidedly the best thing he could do.
We laughed over this new treatment, and the lady promised to have nothing more to do with him. The professor was not content to despise his opponent in silence. He had him cited before the Faculty of Medicine to be examined on his knowledge of the eye, and procured the insertion of a satiric article in the news on the new operation for replacing the crystalline humour, alluding to the wonderful artist then in Warsaw who could perform this operation as easily as a dentist could put in a false tooth.
This made Tadini furious, and he set upon the old professor in the street and forced him to the refuge in a house.
After this he no doubt left the town on foot, for he was seen no more.