Before the explosion of agony with which the driver—till then walking, as usual, some thirty paces in rear—had greeted the catastrophe, had turned into a roaring torrent of abuse, every man, woman, and child within earshot came clattering upon the scene.
For a moment, standing to one side beneath the shelter of a flight of steps, I escaped notice. It was at least appropriate that the luckless waggoner should have been the first to perceive me….
At the actual moment of observation he was at once indicating the disposition of his wood with a gesture charged with the savage despair of a barbaric age and letting out a screech which threatened to curdle the blood.
The gesture collapsed. The screech died on his lips.
With dropped jaw and bulging eyes, the fellow backed to the wall….
When I stepped forward, he put the waggon between us.
I never remember so poignant a silence.
Beneath the merciless scrutiny of those forty pairs of eyes I seemed to touch the very bottom of abashment.
Then I lifted my ridiculous hat and cleared my throat.
"Good day," I said cheerfully, speaking in French. "I'm on my way back from a ball—a fancy-dress ball—and my car has run out of petrol. I want to hire a cart to go to Argelès."
If I had said I wanted to hire a steam-yacht, my simple statement could not have been more apathetically received….