Memoirs of the Foreign Legion by Maurice Magnus

I WAS very tired and as the night wore on I was getting more tired--I could not sleep. New doubts and apprehensions arose--what if I could not get over the frontier--what if they refused me or became suspicious--what if they had my name already on record? But then that wasn't likely; it might be noted down at a regular frontier railway station, but not on this lonely country road. However, I could not dally any longer--I had to do something, and if one thing did not succeed, I had to attempt another immediately, before the entire frontier line was put on guard. I had to take some guard unawares and get over--unless I got over by boat towards dusk. Once in Italy I would be all right. I know the people and like them and they like me. I can get along with an Italian always.

Towards the small hours I fell asleep and woke up at sunrise a bit refreshed. I made plans and unmade them --the hours until my coffee came were endless. I asked for my linen--it wasn't ready. I took a walk and had another look at the port. I hung round the pier and watched the fishermen and the boatmen, but French people of that class are not so sociable as Italians. The French see in a gentleman a natural enemy, or a thing to be treated obsequiously, whereas the Italians look upon any man as a friend, providing he is natural and _simpatico_, and he accepts your treating him as an equal with graciousness and with a debonair manner.