The following adventure happened to me about 1882. I had just taken the
train and settled down in a corner, hoping that I should be left alone,
when the door suddenly opened again and I heard a voice say: “Take care,
monsieur, we are just at a crossing; the step is very high.”
Another voice answered: “That's all right, Laurent, I have a firm hold
on the handle.”
Then a head appeared, and two hands seized the leather straps hanging
on either side of the door and slowly pulled up an enormous body, whose
feet striking on the step, sounded like two canes. When the man had
hoisted his torso into the compartment I noticed, at the loose edge of
his trousers, the end of a wooden leg, which was soon followed by its
mate. A head appeared behind this traveller and asked; “Are you all
right, monsieur?”
“Yes, my boy.”
“Then here are your packages and crutches.”
And a servant, who looked like an old soldier, climbed in, carrying
in his arms a stack of bundles wrapped in black and yellow papers
and carefully tied; he placed one after the other in the net over his
master's head. Then he said: “There, monsieur, that is all. There are
five of them--the candy, the doll the drum, the gun, and the pate de
foies gras.”
“Very well, my boy.”
“Thank you, Laurent; good health!”
The man closed the door and walked away, and I looked at my neighbor. He
was about thirty-five, although his hair was almost white; he wore the
ribbon of the Legion of Honor; he had a heavy mustache and was quite
stout, with the stoutness of a strong and active man who is kept
motionless on account of some infirmity. He wiped his brow, sighed,
and, looking me full in the face, he asked: “Does smoking annoy you,
monsieur?”
“No, monsieur.”
Surely I knew that eye, that voice, that face. But when and where had I
seen them? I had certainly met that man, spoken to him, shaken his hand.
That was a long, long time ago. It was lost in the haze wherein the mind
seems to feel around blindly for memories and pursues them like fleeing
phantoms without being able to seize them. He, too, was observing
me, staring me out of countenance, with the persistence of a man who
remembers slightly but not completely. Our eyes, embarrassed by this
persistent contact, turned away; then, after a few minutes, drawn
together again by the obscure and tenacious will of working memory, they
met once more, and I said: “Monsieur, instead of staring at each other
for an hour or so, would it not be better to try to discover where we
have known each other?”
My neighbor answered graciously: “You are quite right, monsieur.”