Translated by Emil Friend.
Copyright, 1892, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
I stepped upon the platform at Baisenmoyen-Cert station, where my friend Lenfileur awaited me with his carriage.
While on the train I suddenly recollected something that required immediate attention at Paris. Upon my arrival at Baisenmoyen-Cert, I went to the telegraph office to send back a message.
This station differed from others of its class because of the total lack of writing materials.
After a prolonged exploration, I finally succeeded in capturing a rusty pen, dipping it in some colorless, slimy fluid. With heroic effort I succeeded in daubing down the few words of my telegram. A decidedly unprepossessing woman grudgingly took the despatch, counted it, and named the rate, which I immediately paid.
With the relieved conscience of having fulfilled a duty, I was about to walk out when my attention was attracted by a young lady at one of the tables manipulating a Morse key. With slight hauteur she turned her back toward me.
Was she young? Probably. She certainly was red-haired. Was she pretty? Why not? Her simple black dress advantageously displayed a round, agreeable form; her luxuriant hair was arranged so as to reveal a few ringlets and a splendid white neck. And suddenly a mad, inexplicable desire to plant a kiss upon those golden ringlets seized me. In the expectation that the young lady would turn round, I stopped and asked the elderly woman a few questions anent telegraph affairs. Her replies were not at all friendly.
The other woman, however, did not stir.
Whoever supposes that I did not go to the telegraph office the next morning does not know me.
The pretty, red-haired one was alone this time.