THE JAIL
"Dead? This is a regular graveyard. We want live ones", remarked Preminger.
"Here. Leger."
"Why Leger? Why not Ležé?"[1]
"His name is Leger and he lives at Kolín. A poet."
Preminger looked suspiciously at the letters.
"At Kolín? Not at Paris?"
"Ah, you mean Louis Leger? No, I have nothing from him."
He laid aside our Leger disappointedly. "And you have no letters at all from abroad?"
"Yes. Here is a letter from Denis."
"Oh, that's something", and he took the letter out of my hand.
"It’s no good to you. The letter is already several years old. Denis thanks me in it for the dedication of my book The Apostles."
"We shall see", and Denis' letter joined those of Kramář. "Nothing else from abroad?"
"Nothing else."
"Now for home affairs."
I opened drawers, undid bundles,—hundreds and hundreds of letters tumbled out, congratulations, literary matters, bills, telegrams, personal communications, cuttings from papers, rough drafts of poems—all in Czech, and these piles were shared out among the three officers, of whom only the Captain understood Czech. They looked at the signatures and dates, and asked questions.
The volunteer officer with the foxy eyes was standing in the next room and waiting for his turn to come. In the ante-room the man from the street was keeping watch.
I lit a cigar and offered them some. The Captain declined with
- ↑ i. e. giving the name a French pronunciation.
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