The Strange Adventures of Mr. John Smith in Paris/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II.
HERE and there across the Seine some prodigal giant has flung a handful of glittering stars in parallel arches; and these are bridges. As Mr. Smith’s taxicab spun through the Garden of the Tuileries, and over one of these, where looking out he caught the reflection of ten thousand lights in the rippling waters, he was reminded of the bridge down near the orphan asylum back home in Passaic. It gave him a comforting sense of nearness to things he new, and he found it good. Paris was looking up; there was nothing to it.
Then he was whipped round a corner, and as he struggled to steady himself he caught the words “Rue Bonaparte” on a street sign under the full glare of an electric light, and sat up straight in his seat, aroused by some swift recollection. Rue Bonaparte! Here was a thing that he had momentarily forgotten, perhaps a tangible starting point of a search that might take weeks, given over into his hands by sheer luck. There had been a time a few years previously when, in his capacity of private secretary, he had been called upon to write that phrase at least once a week for many months. And now here was the place, the street itself, rolling away under his feet!
There was a quick, tense tightening of his lips, and a narrowing of his straight staring eyes as the thought the words had aroused grew in his mind, and he was just about to stop the taxicab, when he felt it slowing, and it came to a standstill half a block farther on. He stepped out and glanced up curiously at the six-story building towering above him. Yes, it was precisely as he expected, as he knew it ought to be, the Maison de Treville, which happens to be a quiet, eminently respectable place in the Latin Quarter, opposite the Beaux Arts. It was something more than a pension and not quite a hotel; but anyway a respectable place to live. Mr. Smith had known this for years; but it had slipped his memory.
HE turned to the chauffeur with a mouthful of questions; then, suddenly remembering the disaster that had befallen his previous attempts at conversation with this individual, restrained himself and turned into the entrance. From behind the desk in the lobby a young man with delicately waxed mustache, superimposed upon an ingratiating smile, greeted him. Mr. Smith, wholly absorbed in the things he was remembering, glared at the young man with a cold glint of steel in his eyes.
“Something tells me, son, that you don’t speak English either?” he remarked questioningly.
The amiable young man’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair, and the smile widened. “Pardonnez-moi?” he queried.
“I’d have bet eight dollars you didn't,” Mr. Smith continued in calm resignation. “Well, anyhow, I want a room—a room. Are you next? And a bath—a washee—washee place. And meals—food, eats. Do you get it?”
The clerk shrugged his shoulders and bowed and scraped and smiled. These Americans! Oh, la la! They are that droll! The smile wavered a little under the steady scrutiny of Mr. Smith’s straight staring eyes; for he was thinking of other things, things that came to him afresh with the words “Rue Bonaparte.”
“By the way. do you happen to know the name W. Mandeville Clarke?” Mr. Smith continued. “W. Mandeville Clarke? He isn’t stopping here?”
“Qu'est-ce que c’est!” queried the clerk.
“W. Mandeville Clarke?” Mr. Smith repeated distinctly. He picked up a slip of paper and wrote the name on it, then passed it to the clerk. “W. Mandeville Clarke!”
“Oui! M. Clarke!” the clerk burst forth rapturously. Here was something he could lay his tongue to! “M. Clarke! Americaine!”
“You don't know any more what I’m talking about than a jaybird,” Mr. Smith declared unemotionally. “My name isn’t Clarke; my name is John Smith. I’m looking for a man named Clarke.”
“M. Clarke! Oui, oui!” The clerk clung tenaciously to the thing he understood.
Mr. Smith leaned over, pulled the slip of paper from the clerk’s reluctant fingers, tore it into four pieces, and dropped them to the floor. “Forget it!” he advised. “I wanted to know if Clarke was stopping here, and I stand a fine young chance of ever finding out from you, son. And, understand, my name isn’t Clarke; my name is John Smith. Gimme that book!”
He jerked the register from beneath the hand of the astonished clerk and signed his name in it with a large flourish—just like the assistant paying teller of a bank in Passaic, New Jersey.
“Now, never mind Mr. Clarke,” he told the clerk. “We’ll fight that out to-morrow. The thing I most want in the world is a room—a room with four walls and a bed in it—a bed—sleep.” Mr. Smith made a pillow of his two hands, laid his weary head on it, closed his eyes, and snored.
The clerk beamed his delight. “Sommeil! Oui!” he exclaimed.
“If that means sleep, you’re on,” Mr. Smith agreed with a sigh of satisfaction. “Now, eats!”
He dexterously applied an imaginary knife and fork and rubbed his stomach with feigned delight.
“Manger! Oui, oui!” There was the light of perfect understanding in the clerk’s eyes.
“Now, son, you're showing symptoms of human intelligence,” Mr. Smith remarked admiringly. “And now a bath—a swim—the Big Splash. Are you hep?”
Whereupon Mr. Smith laved his face and hands in the ambient air and splashed it all over the shop, after which he dried himself. The little clerk was delighted. Monsieur was an artist! There was nothing better in the Folies-Bergère! In other words the great Coquelin himself wasn’t deuce high!
“Baigner!” he elucidated. “Oui, oui!”
And so, five minutes later, Mr. Smith found himself safely bestowed in a clean, sweet room five flights up, surrounded by his suitcase. Then came a small waiter with a large tray of food, and, sans collar, sans coat, Mr. Smith set himself to fill a long felt want. He did well.