“Where is it?” I asked.
The pilgrim led the way through several narrow, uneven streets and pointed out a time-blackened door. A French servant met me in the anteroom and listened to my request.
“Are you a Catholic?” he demanded.
“No,” I answered.
“Wait,” he murmured.
A few moments later he returned with the information that “the reverend father could admit only those of the faith.” “You must look to the Protestants,” he concluded.
“But I believe there are no Protestant hospices here?” I suggested.
“Ah! It is true,” cried the servant, waving his hands above his head, “but tant pis! You should be a Catholic and all would be well.”
I turned away to the American consulate. If there was work to be had by faranchees in the city, the consul, surely, should know of it. I fought my way through a leering throng of doorkeepers and kawasses into the outer office. While I waited for an interview the population of our land increased. A greasy, groveling Jew, of the laboring classes, the love-locks at his temples untrimmed and unperfumed, pushed timidly at the swinging door several times, entered, and bowed and scraped before the native secretary to attract his attention.
“Gonsul,” he wheezed, holding out his naturalization papers, “Gonsul, I vant rregister my vife; she got boy.”