The Argosy — page 50: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Letters from Majorca. 37 Fortunately the trial did not take place. We went our way, the madman went his; or rather we left him on the bridge. It was the Pont St. Michel which I have crossed scores of times on my way to the Quartier Latin, to take part in scenes I can contemplate without any terrible self-accusings, yet in which ladies, nevertheless, had no place. We left the madman, I say, grinning after us like an embodied imp, and showing teeth that to our excited imagination tooked like fangs seeking whom they might devour. No doubt he was harmless, and the chances are that he will some day take a leap into the pitiless stream which even then he seemed to be scrutinising with evil intent. After this we made our way down the banks of the Seine, through the courtyard of the Louvre, back to the hotel, where I was under- going a small adventure. It was in this wise. On first arriving, we had left the care of the luggage to the porters of the hotel, but when it was taken up to our rooms a dressing-bag was missing. It appeared to have been overlooked and sent back in the voiture, luckily one belonging specially to the Gare du Nord. The bag also contained important documents not to be replaced, and one felt somewhat anxious. I stirred up the people in the bureau, who are naturally lethargic, and take things with an amazing calmness. They in turn abused the porters, and one of the two special culprits in agony of mind and repentance, went off to the Gare du Nord in a Macre. He returned with the information that the bag had been found by the inspector and immediately despatched back again to the hotel. Time passed, but no bag appeared, and at half-past nine a second messenger was sent off. He likewise returned about eleven with the information that this particular bag had been confounded with another bag, that it was now at the station in possession of the Commissaire de Police, and could not and would not be delivered before to-morrow morning. As our train started at 8.45, it was evident that the powers must be moved, a difficult thing to accomplish in France. Though nearly midnight, I went off to the Gare, found the Commissaire on the very point of leaying, praised his discretion, admired his organising faculties, and, in short, managed so well as to retire in possession of my property—and of the heart of Monsieur le Commissaire. Then it turned out that I, and I alone, had been the culprit. Carrying my own bag by way of additional caution, on coming out of the station I had placed it fora moment on one of the benches, whilst a porter went off in search of our special carriage. Up came our late fellow traveller, his two dogs pulling two ways and he pulling a third. He at once started a lively conversation, and when the carriage was found, the bag was forgotten. There it was discovered by a porter when the crowd had cleared away and the station was deserted, and taken to the office of the Commissaire de Police. But what about the unhappy hotel porters, who, for four hours, CoOnmnicbooks (CO) im