“The police visé must come first,” said the officer in charge.
Monsieur le Préfet has his office conveniently located about eight miles away from the Control, over the river. And he’s on the fourth floor of a building constructed before the invention of the elevator. From behind an untrimmed hedge of black whiskers he questioned me as to my forebears, musical tastes and baseball preferences. Then he retired into chambers and presently issued forth with my passport, on which his stamp had been added to the beautiful collection already there. It says I’m Bon for a trip to Amérique par Angleterre, so I don’t know whether I’m to go that way or through Grande Bretagne.
Thence back to Rue Napoléon Lajoie, and another long wait.
“Yes,” said the officer when my turn came again, “the visé is all right, but where is your steamship ticket? You’ll have to show that before we can pass you.”
In order to show it I had to go and buy it, and in order to buy it I had to scare up some money, which is no mere child’s play in Gay Paree these days. I called on four people before I found one who was touchable. With what he grudgingly forked over I hastened to the booking office and felt at home there, it being on Rue Scribe. There was a customer ahead of me—our president’s youngest son-in-law.
“Do you know who that was?” said the agent excitedly when the young man had departed.
“Yes,” I replied, “but we don’t speak to each other.”
“Now,” said the agent, “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you a few questions. It’s annoying, I know, but it’s the war-time rule.”
“Shoot,” I told him. “I’m thoroughly used to being annoyed.”
He ran through the familiar list and saved a new one for the wind-up.