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uncomfortable, confirming me in my opinion that economy in travelling is one of the dearest economies of all.
Personally, I would always rather travel first class and miss my meals, than travel third and enjoy three good ones, on a day's journey. Nor is this in the least due to paltry exclusiveness and despicable snobbishness. It is merely that I would rather spend the money on a comfortable seat, a pleasant compartment, and freedom from crowding, than on food with cramped circumstance. Let him who, in his wisdom, would rather spend his money on good food and have the discomfort, do so by all means.
De gustibus non disputandum, as the learned say, and likewise, Chacun à son goût.
Anyhow, the third-class journey was by no means to my goût at the time, though the day quickly came when it would have seemed the height of luxury.
From Charing Cross (where I turned my pounds into francs and felt much richer) to Dover I contrasted the beautiful county of Kent with my own Devon, in favour of the latter; and, at Dover, I went on board the cross-Channel steamer, deeply and appreciatively inhaling the glorious air, after that of the dusty, stuffy, crowded compartment in which I had travelled down.
Mentally I was in a curious condition, for while one half of myself ached unbearably for Isobel, the other half rejoiced wildly at the thought of adventure, travel, novelty, spacious life, mysterious Africa, the desert, fighting, and all that appeals to the heart of romantic youth.
At Calais, the sight of a French soldier, a sentry near the Custom House, gave me a real thrill.
Was I actually going to wear that uniform myself in a day or two? A képi, baggy red breeches, and a long overcoat, buttoned back from the legs? How much more attractive and romantic than the familiar British uniform that seemed to suggest Hyde Park and nurse-maids, rather than palms, oases, Moorish cities, and desert warfare.
So is the unknown always better than the known, and the thing we have not, better than that we have. . . .
At the Gare du Nord I experienced, in an intensified form, that sense of loneliness and utter insignificance that had assailed me at Waterloo; and I went out into the bright uproar of gay Paris, feeling anything but bright, uproarious, or gay myself. I was once more faced with the problem of hotels, for I had not the least idea as to how one set about offering one's services to France as a mercenary soldier, and the first thing to do, therefore, was to find a roof and a bed to serve me while I set about the quest.
My knowledge of Paris hotels was confined to the Meurice, Crillon, the Bristol, and the Ambassadors, but I knew these to be expensive, and, moreover, places at which I might meet acquaintances. There was no great likelihood of my meeting anyone who knew me well; but there was a chance, and I wanted to behave precisely as a guilty fugitive would do.
If I were traced, and it were found that I had gone, in London and Paris, to places where I might meet friends, it would hardly look as though I were a genuine jewel-thief, anxious to cover his tracks as he fled the country.
On the other hand, I did not want to blunder into an obscure cheap hotel, without luggage, an obvious foreigner, and run the risk of a visit from a polite but inquisitive agent de police, as seemed to me quite possible, if I and my explanations struck the proprietor as peculiar. . . .
A whimsical idea struck me. Why not go to the police themselves for advice on the subject of avoiding such trouble?
Sauntering along the noisy busy thoroughfare that passes the Gare du Nord, I looked out for a gendarme.
Presently I saw one standing on an island in the middle of the road, silent, inscrutable, immobile, heavily caped, oppressed by great responsibilities. Crossing to him, I raised my hat, and in my best and politest French (which is not bad, thanks to a French governess in our youth, and the Chaplain's wisdom and care), asked him if he could direct me to a good quiet hotel.
Moving his eyes, but not his head, nor any other portion of his majestic person, he examined me from top to toe and back again.
"Monsieur is English," he pronounced.
I acknowledged the truth of his statement, wondering how he knew I was not German, Swiss, Danish, Swedish, Norwegian, nor Dutch.
"Hôtel Normandie, Rue de l'Échelle," he announced without hesitation.
"And how do I get there, Monsieur l'Officier?" I asked.
"Fiacre," was the prompt, terse reply, and the all-seeing official eye left me and sought among the traffic. A white-gloved hand was suddenly raised, and an open cab, driven by a many-caped gentleman, who did not look like a tee-totaller, approached.
"Normandie, Rue de l'Échelle," said my gendarme to the cocher, and gave me a military salute, as I thanked him, raked my hat, and stepped into the carriage.
I enjoyed the drive through beautiful Paris in the mingled glow of late sunset and the myriad lights of the shops and streets; but my heart sank a little as the cab drew up before a fashionable-looking hotel that stood at a busy corner, close to the Rue de Rivoli and to the Rue de la Paix.
It looked as expensive as the best. However, Fate had sent me here, and here I would stay.
Trying to look as unconcerned as a luggageless traveller may, I entered the hall, received the bow of an imposing hall-porter, and marched straight ahead, past the grand staircase and the dining-room, to where I could see the bureau, and beyond it, the palm-decked fumoir.
At the bureau, a very pretty girl was talking to an American in American.
This was good luck. I could make a much more convincing show in English than in my pedantic and careful French.
Standing near, and trying to look like an eccentric foreigner who habitually went about without stick or gloves in order that he might keep his hands in his pockets, I waited for the American to go.
Meanwhile, it was quite impossible to avoid hearing what was said by the keen-faced, square-shouldered, lumpy-toed, baggy-trousered, large-hatted gentleman to the lady, what time she chewed a cud of sweet recollection and Mangle's Magnificent Masticating Gum or similar enduring comestible.
When at length he took his key and went, I turned to the girl.
"So you was raised in Baltimore!" said I rapturously. "Fancy that being your home town now! Isn't it just the cutest place? Peachiest gals and bulliest cakes in America! . . . Say, I reckon this gay Paree hasn't got anything on little old New York!" . . .
"My!" said the young lady. "D'you know Baltimore? You don't say!" and she smiled sweetly upon me.
"Know Baltimore!" said I, and left it at that. . . . "Lots of Americans and English here, I suppose," I went on, "since the hotel folk are wise (and lucky) enough to have you in the bureau? And I suppose you speak French as well as any Parisian?"
"My, yes," she smiled. "Most as well as I speak good old U.S. . . . Why, yes--lots of home people and Britishers here. . . . Most of our waiters can help 'em out too, when they're stuck for the French of 'Yes, I'll have a highball, Bo,'" and she tinkled a pretty little laugh.
"Guess that's fine," said I. "I want to turn in here for a day or two. All upset at my place." (Very true, indeed). "Just to sleep and breakfast. Got a vacant location?"
"Sure," said my fair friend, and glanced at an indicator. "Troisième. Eighteen francs. No--breakfast only--fourteen. Going up now?" And she unhooked a key and passed it to me with a brief "Deux cent vingt deux. The bell-hop will show you."
"Not bringing any stuff in," I said, and drew my entire fortune from my pocket, as one who would pay whatever was desired in advance, and the more the merrier.
"Shucks," said my friendly damsel, and I gathered that I was deemed trustworthy.
In the big book that she pushed to me I wrote myself down as Smith, but clung to the "John," that there might be something remnant and stable in a whirling and dissolving universe.
"Guess I'll hike up and take possession now," said I thereafter, and with my best