A Detruncation 



When, in the front rank of an anxious crowd, I rushed to 

 those awful folding portals whereover is written distribu- 

 tion DE BAGAGEs (but where should be written, lasciate 

 OGNi SPERANZA, VOX CHE NGN registrate), I waited there 

 with agonising sensations, and saw, through the grating, 

 trunk after trunk, and valise after valise, and every other 

 sort of luggage, borne in on the shoulders of brawny and 

 blousy porters. It came not. I made my complaint. It 

 would come by the next train, five in the morning. I 

 signed my name in a book — sighed, and sallied forth. 



It was about six. The night was falling fast. I had 

 intended to go direct to the Lyons railway, and take up 

 my night's quarters at some neighbouring hostel. That 

 was now impossible, so I put into the Hotel de Normandie, 

 close to the station — hired an apartment — rolled up my 

 great-coat, with the revolver and three rouleaux of nine 

 Napoleons each, put up in separate fingers cut off an old 

 glove, in its pockets — stuffed the bundle into a closet, 

 locked the door, and went forth into the night, bearing 

 with me the key of my arsenal, treasury, and ward- 

 robe. 



I dined — called on a friend in the Boulevard des Italiens, 

 and asked him where I could get water-colours. 



Following his directions, I went to the Place de la 

 Bourse. 



I was some time selecting my paints and brushes. The 

 shopman, a smart young democrat, seemed to take no 

 interest whatever in selling his wares. Probably he was 

 the prodigal son of the establishment, with a fixed income. 

 He seemed, " not to put too fine a point on it," intensely 

 bored, and ever and anon would ejaculate, sotto voce^ "Oh, 

 mon Dieu, est-il possible ! " At last I finished my selec- 

 tion of paints, and began to try the points of the brushes. 



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