"Next day. We are now at anchor off Cherbourg, within a stone's throw of a long black mole,—French lights winking on a black felt hill; a sky of dark gray gauze behind it, in rags, with stars showing through. Early in the morning we land, and the search commences,—not the customs, my soul! Pray for it, Geoffrey, and write me encouragingly thereof. The most encouraging thing I know is that if I've acquired enough perspective on the immediate Past to be able to state it at as great length as I've stated it in these presents, I ought to be able to turn the same apparatus on the immediate Future and at least find my way into it; though I'm quite aware,—so don't you go and tell me,—that the future has to be lived, not stated.
"Allons, enfants de la patrie! Life begins tomorrow!"
Of the various addresses he had been given, Grover best liked the sound of "rue Truffaut, just off the rue des Batignolles."
"It's fairly near the heart of the city yet gives the impression of not being so," Geoffrey Saint had written, "and I think you would find it a more satisfactory neighborhood to work in than the left bank, which
