“I think he’s in the Rue François Premier.”
“And is the car all right?”
“I guess so. Nos haven’t looked at it yet.”
I had let my taxi go, and twenty minutes were spent in getting another. It was another hour before we located the préfet.
A secretary examined my passport and American pass and took my dossier:
Name, nationality, birthplace, age, ancestry, real purpose in coming to France. Hair—black; forehead—high; eyes—brown; nose—prominent; mouth—medium; chin—round; complexion—dark; height—six one and three-quarters. Sign here.
“Now,” said the sec., “monsieur will avez to come across avec a photophie.”
“I’m just out,” I said. “I’d no idea I’d be so popular.”
“Nos can issue no passes sans a photophie,” says he, so out I went in search of a rapid-fire studio.
The driver pulled up in front of a gallery on the Rue de la Paix, where the artist promised to have six copies of my map printed by midi.