At this psychological moment a taxicab came meandering up the street. It
was unoccupied, but its red flag was turned down. The driver shook his
head vigorously as I signaled him.
"I go to my _dejeuner_, Monsieur!" he explained.
"On the contrary," said I fiercely, "you go to the tourist bureau
of Monsieur Cook in the Place de l'Opera, at the greatest speed the
_sergents de ville_ allow!"
I must have mesmerized him, for he took me there obediently, casting
hunted glances back at me from time to time when the traffic momentarily
halted us, as if fearing to find that I was leveling a pistol at his
head.
It being noon, the office of the tourist bureau was almost deserted,
a single, bored-looking, young French clerk keeping vigil behind
the travelers' counter. With the sociable instinct of his nation he
brightened up at my appearance.
"I want," I announced, "to ask about trains to Bleau."
For a moment he looked blank; then he smiled in understanding.
"Monsieur is without doubt an artist," he declared.
I was not, decidedly; but the words had been an affirmation and not a
question.
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