“I have you feexed goot. Dot rascal landlord knows me, and he vouldn’t dare try a schwindle mit any barty oof mine.”
“What do you pay for the rooms?”
“Ten francs—only ten francs!”
“But we had better rooms day before yesterday for six!”
“Not in dees blace. Het you pin alone you would hef baid feefteen.”
This was all a lie. The courier is known to all the landlords, and the landlords allow him a very snug commission on all parties he brings into their sheep fold to be sheared.
This matter of commission goes into everything you touch. Your courier will not permit you to purchase anything without him—he places himself between you and everything, from a picture to a tooth pick. He buys for you, the goods are sent to your hotel, you give the courier the money to pay it, which he does, bringing back a receipt for the money which he has really paid, less the commission, all of which was added to the price of the goods at the beginning.
In order that you may not escape him in material things, he reduces you to abject helplessness in things not material. He bears down upon you in such a way that you comprehend the fact that you can do nothing without him. For instance, you see a beautiful spring by the roadside; the water as pure and sweet as water can be, which actually invites you to drink. Now, should you ask the courier if that is good water, he doubtless would say yes; but should you spring from the carriage and attempt to drink without permission, he jumps also and holds you back.
“Dot vater ees boison,” he says. “I vill show you de vater vot you may trink mit safety.”
Likewise in the matter of wines. At one resting place on the mountains, Tibbitts was ferocious for a bottle of the delightful white wine you get everywhere, and called for a bottle without consulting the courier. Promptly the man countermanded the order.