Prokop then set off to the part of the park which sloped away from the castle. There he found a lake with some bathing sheds, but overcoming the temptation to bathe, he went on into a beautiful coppice of birch trees. Here he came upon a latticework fence and a half effaced path leading to a gate; the gate was not completely closed and it was possible to pass through it into a pine wood. He walked quietly along over the slippery pine cones until he reached the edge of the wood. And there, damnation, was a fence surmounted by barbed wire, a good twelve feet high. How strong, he wondered, was the wire? He tested it carefully with his hands and feet until he noticed that his conduct had begun to interest a soldier with a fixed bayonet who was standing on the other side.
“A hot day, eh?” said Prokop, to pass it off.
“You are not allowed here,” said the soldier; and Prokop swung round and set off farther along the barbed-wire fence. The pine wood turned into scattered young trees, behind which were a few sheds and stables, evidently the yard belonging to the castle. He looked through the fence and inside there immediately began a frightful howling, yelping and barking, and a good dozen dogs, bloodhounds and wolfhounds, hurled themselves at the fence. Four pairs of unfriendly eyes looked out of four different doors. Prokop made some sort of greeting and wished to go farther, but one of the servants ran after him, saying that “You’re not allowed here,” after which he led him back to the gate at the end of the birch wood.
All this put Prokop into a very bad frame of mind. Carson must tell him which was the way out, he decided; he was not a canary, to be kept in a cage. Making a detour to avoid the tennis court he made his way to the road through the park, along which Carson had first led him to the castle. No sooner had he reached it than a fellow in a flat cap, who looked as if he had stepped out of a film, came up to him and asked where the gentleman might be going.
“Outside,” said Prokop shortly; but “You’re not allowed here!” exclaimed the fellow in the cap; “this is the road to the munition barracks and anyone who wants to go along it must have a laissez-passer from the management. The gate leading outside directly from the castle is back there on the main road and to the left, please.”
Prokop went along the main road and to the left, please, until he was brought up by a large gate with a grating in it. The old doorkeeper went forward to open it for him. “Have you a ticket, please?”
“What sort of ticket?”
“A pass.”
“What sort of pass?”
“A ticket, giving you permission to go out.”
Prokop became furious. “Am I in a prison, then?”
The old man shrugged his shoulders regretfully: “I was instructed this morning, please.”
Poor wretch, thought Prokop, as if he could prevent anyone going out! A movement of the hand—
From the window of the doorkeeper’s house there looked out a familiar face, recalling that of Bob. Prokop left his train of thought unfinished, turned back, and wandered again towards the castle. The devil, he said to himself, they’re up to some curious tricks; it almost looks as if one were a prisoner here. Good; I’ll discuss this with Carson. To begin with, I’m not going to take any notice of their hospitality and shan’t join them at dinner. I’m not going to sit down with those young ladies who laughed at me behind my back on the tennis court. Infinitely dejected, Prokop returned to the rooms which had been assigned to him and threw himself down on a divan, giving himself up to his anger. A moment later Mr. Paul knocked at the door and asked with great kindness and concern whether the gentleman was going down to lunch.
“No, I’m not,” growled Prokop.
Mr. Paul bowed and disappeared. In a minute he had returned, pushing before him a little table on wheels, covered with glasses, fragile porcelain and silver. “What wine, please?” he asked tenderly. Prokop muttered something so as to be left in peace.
Mr. Paul went on tiptoe to the door and there took from two white paws a large dish. “Consommé de tortue,” he whispered and poured some out for Prokop, upon which the dish was borne away in the white claws. By the same route there arrived fish, meat, salad, and things which Prokop had never eaten in his life and did not even know how to deal with; but he was shy of exhibiting his embarrassment before Mr. Paul. To his surprise his wrath had somehow disappeared. “Sit down,” he ordered Paul, savouring the dry white wine with his nose and palate. Mr. Paul bowed considerately but remained standing.
“Listen, Paul,” Prokop continued, “do you think that I’m in prison here?”
Mr. Paul politely shrugged his shoulders: “I am unable to say, please.”
“Which is the way out?”
Mr. Paul reflected for a moment. “Along the main road and then to the left, please. Will the gentleman take coffee?”
“Well, perhaps.” Prokop burnt his throat with the superior Mocha, after which Mr. Paul handed him all the perfumes of Araby, contained in a cigar-box and a silver lighter. “Listen, Paul,” Prokop began again, biting the end of a cigar, “thank you. Did you ever know a certain Thomas here?”
Mr. Paul raised his eyes to heaven in an effort of recollection. “I didn’t, please.”
“How many soldiers are there here?”
Mr. Paul considered and made a calculation. “In the main guard about two hundred. That’s the infantry. Then the field
