He was looking through a hole--a square hole, framed about with mahogany
and ground glass. His face was red, his eyes were black, his
mustache--waxed to two needle-points--was a yellowish brown; his necktie
blue and his uniform dark chocolate seamed with little threads of
vermilion and incrusted with silver poker-chip buttons emblazoned with
the initials of the corporation which he served.
I knew I was all right when I read the initials. I had found the place
and the man. The place was the ticket-office of the International
Sleeping-Car Company. The man was its agent.
So I said, very politely and in my best French--it is a little frayed
and worn at the edges, but it arrives--sometimes----
"A lower for Paris."
The man in chocolate, with touches of the three primary colors
distributed over his person, half-closed his eyes, lifted his shoulders
in a tired way, loosened his fingers, and, without changing the
lay-figure expression of his face, replied:
"There is nothing."
"Not a berth?"
"Not a berth."
"Are they all _paid_ for?" and I accented the word _paid_. I spend
countless nights on Pullmans in my own country and am familiar with many
uncanny devices.
"All but one."
"Why can't I have it? It is within an hour of train-time. Who ordered
it?"
"The Director of the great circus. He is here now waiting for his
troupe, which arrives from Berlin in a special car belonging to our
company. The other car--the one that starts from here--is full. We have
only two cars on this train--Monsieur the Director has the last berth."
He said this, of course, in his native language. I am merely translating
it. I would give it to you in the original, but it might embarrass you;
it certainly would me.
"What's the matter with putting the Circus Director in the special car?
Your regulations say berths must be paid for one hour before train-time.
It is now fifty-five minutes of eight. Your train goes at eight, doesn't
it? Here is a twenty-franc gold piece--never mind the change"--and I
flung a napoleon on the desk before him.
The bunch of fingers disentangled themselves, the shoulders sank an
inch, the waxed ends of the taffy-colored mustache vibrated slightly,
and a smile widened in circles across the flat dulness of his face
until it engulfed his eyebrows, ears, and chin. The effect of the
dropping of the coin had been like the dropping of a stone into the
still smoothness of a pool--the wrinkling wavelets had reached the
uttermost shore-line.
The smile over, he opened a book about the size of an atlas, dipped a
pen in an inkstand, recorded my point of departure--Cologne, and my
point of arrival--Paris; dried the inscription with a pinch of black
sand filched from a saucer--same old black sand used in the last
century--cut a section of the page with a pair of shears, tossed the
coin in the air, listened to its ring on the desk with a satisfied look,
slipped the whole twenty-franc piece into his pocket--regular fare,
fifteen francs, irregular swindle, five francs--and handed me the
billet. Then he added, with a trace of humor in his voice:
"If Monsieur the Director of the Circus comes now he will go in the
special car."
I examined the billet. I had Compartment Number Four, upper berth, Car
312.
I lighted a cigarette, gave my small luggage-checks to a porter with
directions to deposit my traps in my berth when the train was ready--the
company's office was in the depot--and strolled out to look at
the station.
You know the Cologne station, of course. It is as big as the Coliseum,
shaped like an old-fashioned hoop-skirt with a petticoat of glass, and
connects with one of the most beautiful bridges in the world. It has
two immense waiting-rooms, with historical frescos on the walls and two
huge fireplaces supported on nudities shivering with the cold, for no
stick of wood ever blazes on the well-swept hearths. It has also a
gorgeous restaurant, with panelled ceiling, across which skip bunches of
butterfly Cupids in shameless costumes, and an inviting cafe with
never-dying palms in the windows, a portrait of the Kaiser over the
counter holding the coffee-urn, and a portrait of the Kaiserin over the
counter holding the little sticky cakes, the baby bottles of champagne,
and the long lady-finger sandwiches with bits of red ham hanging from
their open ends like poodle-dogs' tongues.
Outside these ponderous rooms, under the arching glass of the station
itself, is a broad platform protected from rushing trains and yard
engines by a wrought-iron fence, twisted into most enchanting scrolls
and pierced down its whole length by sliding wickets, before which stand
be-capped and be-buttoned officials of the road. It is part of the duty
of these gatemen never to let you through these wickets until the
arrival of the last possible moment compatible with the boarding of
your car.
So if you are wise--that is, if you have been left behind several times
depending on the watchfulness of these Cerberi and their promises to let
you know when your train is ready--you hang about this gate and keep an
eye out as to what is going on. I had been two nights on the sleeper
through from Warsaw and beyond, and could take no chances.
Then again, I wanted to watch the people coming and going--it is a habit
of mine; nothing gives me greater pleasure. It has made me an expert in
judging human nature. I flatter myself that I can tell the moment I set
my eyes on a man just what manner of life he leads, what language he
speaks, whether he be rich or poor, educated or ignorant. I can do all
this before he opens his mouth. I have never been proud of this faculty.
I have regarded it more as a gift, as I would an acute sense of color,
or a correct eye for drawing, or the ability to acquire a language
quickly. I was born that way, I suppose.
The first man to approach the wicket was the Director of the Circus. I
knew him at once. There was no question as to _his_ identity. He wore a
fifty-candle-power stone in his shirt-front, a silk hat that shone like
a new hansom cab, and a Prince Albert coat that came below his knees. He
had taken off his ring boots, of course, and was without his whip, but
otherwise he was completely equipped to raise his hat and say: "Ladies
and Gentlemen, the world-renowned," etc., etc., "will now perform the
blood-curdling act of," etc.
He was attended by a servant, was smooth-shaven, had an Oriental
complexion as yellow as the back of an old law-book, black, jet-black
eyes, and jet-black hair.
I listened for some outbreak, some explosion about his bed having been
sold from under him, some protest about the rights of a citizen. None
came. The gateman merely touched his hat, slid back the gate, and the
Director of the Greatest Show on Earth, smiling haughtily, passed in,
crossed the platform and stepped into a _wagon-lit_ standing on the next
track to me labelled "Paris 312," and left me behind. The gateman had
had free tickets, of course, or would have, for himself and family
whenever the troupe should be in Cologne. There was no doubt of it--I
saw it in the smile that permeated his face and the bow that bent his
back as the man passed him. This kind of petty bribery is, of course,
abominable, and should never be countenanced.
Some members of the troupe came next. The gentleman in chocolate with my
five francs in his pocket did not mention the name of any other member
of the troupe except the Director, but it was impossible for me to be
mistaken about these people--I have seen too many of them.
She was rather an imposing-looking woman--not young, not old--dressed in
a long travelling-cloak trimmed with fur (how well we know these
night-cloaks of the professional!), and was holding by a short leash an
enormous Danish hound; one of those great hulking hounds--a hound whose
shoulders shake when he walks, with white, blinky eyes, smooth skin, and
mottled spots--brown and gray--spattered along his back and ribs. Trick
dog, evidently--one who springs at the throat of the assassin (the
assassin has a thin slice of sausage tucked inside his collar-button),
pulls him to the earth, and sucks his life's blood or chews his throat.
She, too, went through with a sweep--the dog beside her, followed by a
maid carrying two band-boxes, a fur boa, and a bunch of parasols closely
furled and tied with a ribbon. I braced up, threw out my shoulders, and
walked boldly up to the wicket. The be-buttoned and be-capped man looked
at me coldly, waved me away with his hand, and said "Nein."
Now, when a man of intelligence, speaking the language of the country,
backed by the police, the gendarmerie, and the Imperial Army, says
"Nein" to me, if I am away from home I generally bow to the will of
the people.
So I waited.
Then I heard the low rumble of a train and a short high-keyed shriek--we
used to make just such shrieking sounds by blowing into keys when we
were boys. The St. Petersburg express was approaching end foremost--the
train with the special sleeping-car holding the balance of the circus
troupe. The next moment it bumped gently into Car No. 312, holding the
Director (I wondered whether he had my berth), the woman with the dog,
and her maid.
The gateman paused until the train came to a dead standstill, waited
until the last arriving passenger had passed through an exit lower down
along the fence, slid back the gate, and I walked through--alone! Not
another passenger either before or behind me! And the chocolate
gentleman told me the car was full! The fraud!
When I reached the steps of Car No. 312 I found a second gentleman in
chocolate and poker-chip buttons. He was scrutinizing a list of sold and
unsold compartments by the aid of a conductor's lantern braceleted on
his elbow. He turned the glare of his lantern on my ticket, entered the
car and preceded me down its narrow aisle and slid back the door of
Number Four. I stepped and discovered, to my relief, my small luggage,
hat-box, shawl, and umbrella, safely deposited in the upper berth. My
night's rest, at all events, was assured.
I found also a bald-headed passenger, who was standing with his back to
me stowing his small luggage into the lower berth. He looked at me over
his shoulder for a moment, moved his bag so that I could pass, and went
on with his work. My sharing his compartment had evidently produced an
unpleasant impression.
I slipped off my overcoat, found my travelling-cap, and was about to
light a fresh cigarette when there came a tap at the door. Outside in
the aisle stood a man with a silk hat in his hand.
"Monsieur, I am the Manager of the Compagnie Internationale. It is my
pleasure to ask whether you have everything for your comfort. I am going
on to Paris with this same train, so I shall be quite within
your reach."
I thanked him for his courtesy, assured him that now that all my traps
were in my berth and the conductor had shown me to my compartment, my
wants were supplied, and watched him knock at the next door. Then I
stepped out into the aisle.
It was an ordinary European Pullman, some ten staterooms in a row, a
lavatory at one end and a three-foot sofa at the other. When you are
unwilling to take your early morning coffee on the gritty, dust-covered,
one-foot-square, propped-up-with-a-leg table in your stuffy compartment,
you drink it sitting on this sofa. Three of these compartment doors were
open. The woman with the dog was in Number One. The big dog and the maid
in Number Two, and the Ring Master in Number Three (his original number,
no doubt; the clerk had only lied)--I, of course, came next in
Number Four.
Soon I became conscious that a discussion was going on in the newly
arrived circus-car whose platform touched ours. I could hear the voice
of a woman and then the gruff tones of a man. Then a babel of sounds
came sifting down the aisle. I stepped over the dog, who had now
stretched himself at full length in the aisle, and out on to
the platform.
A third gentleman in chocolate--the porter of the circus-car and a
duplicate of our own--was being besieged by a group of people all
talking at once and all in different tongues. A mild-eyed, pink-cheeked
young man in spectacles was speaking German; a richly dressed woman of
thirty-five, very stately and very beautiful, was interpolating in
Russian, and a plump, rosy-cheeked, energetic little Englishwoman was
hurling English in a way as pointed as it was forcible. Everybody was
excited and everybody was angry. Standing in the car-door listening
intently was a French maid and two round-faced, wide-collared boys, of
say ten and twelve. The dispute was evidently over these two boys, as
every attack contained some direct allusion to "mes enfants" or "these
children" or "die Kinder," ending in the forefinger of each speaker
being thrust bayonet fashion toward the boys.
While I was making up my mind as to the particular roles which these
several members of the Greatest Show on Earth played, I heard the
English girl say--in French, of course--English-French--with an accent:
"It is a shame to be treated in this way. We have paid for every one of
these compartments, and you know it. The young masters will not go in
those vile-smelling staterooms for the night. It's no place for them. I
will go to the office and complain."
[Illustration: Everybody was excited and everybody was mad.]
The third chocolate attendant, in reply, merely lifted his shoulders. It
was the same old lift--a tired feeling seems to permeate these
gentlemen, as if they were bored to death. A hotel clerk on the Riviera
sometimes has this lift when he tells you he has not a bed in the house
and you tell him he--prevaricates. I knew something of the lift--had
already cost me five francs. I knew, too, what kind of medicine that
sort of tired feeling needed, and that until the bribe was paid the
young woman and her party would be bedless.
My own anger was now aroused. Here was a woman, rather a pretty woman,
an Anglo-Saxon--my own race--in a strange city and under the power of a
minion whose only object was plunder. That she jumped through hoops or
rode bareback in absurdly short clothes, or sold pink lemonade in
spangles, made no difference. She was in trouble, and needed assistance.
I advanced with my best bow.
"Madam, can I do anything for you?"
She turned, and, with a grateful smile, said:
"Oh, you speak English?"