Then with the ghastly miniature roar of an insane toy the train for Paris came fumbling into the station….
We boarded it, due caution being taken that I should not escape. As a matter of fact I held up the would-be passengers for nearly a minute by my unaided attempts to boost my uncouth baggage aboard. Then my captors and I blundered heavily into a compartment in which an Englishman and two French women were seated. My gendarmes established themselves on either side of the door, a process which woke up the Anglo-Saxon and caused a brief gap in the low talk of the women. Jolt—we were off.
I find myself with a française on my left and an anglais on my right. The latter has already uncomprehendingly subsided into sleep. The former (a woman of about thirty) is talking pleasantly to her friend, whom I face. She must have been very pretty before she put on the black. Her friend is also a veuve. How pleasantly they talk, of la guerre, of Paris, of the bad service; talk in agreeably modulated voices, leaning a little forward to each other, not wishing to disturb the dolt at my right. The train tears slowly on. Both the gendarmes are asleep, one with his hand automatically grasping the handle of the door. Lest I escape. I try all sorts of positions, for I find myself very tired. The best is to put my cane between my legs and rest my chin on it; but even that is uncomfortable, for the Englishman has writhed all over me by this time and is snoring creditably. I look him over; an Etonian, as I guess. Certain well-bred-well-fedness. Except for the position—well, c’est la guerre. The women are speaking softly. “And do you know, my dear, that they had raids again in Paris? My sister wrote me.”—“One has excitement always in a great city, my dear.”—
Bump, slowing down. BUMP—BUMP.
It is light outside. One sees the world. There is a world still, the gouvernement français has not taken it away, and the air must be beautifully cool. In the compartment it is hot. The gendarmes smell worst. I know how I smell. What polite women.
“Enfin, nous voilà.” My guards awoke and yawned pretentiously. Lest I should think they had dozed off. It is Paris.
Some permissionaires cried “Paris.” The woman across from me said “Paris, Paris.” A great shout came up from every insane drowsy brain that had travelled with us—a fierce and beautiful cry, which went the length of the train…. Paris, where one forgets, Paris, which is Pleasure, Paris, in whom our souls live, Paris, the beautiful, Paris at last.
The Englishman woke up and said heavily to me: “I say, where are we?”—“Paris,” I answered, walking carefully on his feet as I made my baggage-laden way out of the compartment. It was Paris.
My guards hurried me through the station. One of them (I saw for the first time) was older than the other, and rather handsome with his Van Dyck blackness of curly beard. He said that it was too early for the metro, it was closed. We should take a car. It would bring us to the other station from which our next train left. We should hurry. We emerged from the station and its crowds of crazy men. We boarded a car marked something. The conductress, a strong, pink-cheeked, rather beautiful girl in black, pulled my baggage in for me with a gesture which filled all of me with joy. I thanked her, and she smiled at me. The car moved along through the morning.
We descended from it. We started off on foot. The car was not the right car. We would have to walk to the station. I was faint and almost dead from weariness and I stopped when my overcoat had fallen from my benumbed arm for the second time: “How far is it?” The older gendarme returned briefly, “Twenty minutes.” I said to him: “Will you help me carry these things?” He thought, and told the younger to carry my small sack filled with papers. The latter grunted, “C’est défendu.” We went a little farther, and I broke down again. I stopped dead, and said: “I can’t go any farther.” It was obvious to my escorts that I couldn’t, so I didn’t trouble to elucidate. Moreover, I was past elucidation.