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Compartment Number Four–Cologne To Paris
by
The cigarette smoked, I was again in the corridor, the bald-headed man holding the door for me to pass out first.
It was now nine o’clock, and we had been under way an hour. I found the Pigeon Charmer occupying the sofa. The two young Acrobats and the Lightning Calculator were evidently in bed, and the maid, no doubt, busy preparing her mistress’s couch for the night. She smiled quite frankly when I approached, and motioned me to a seat beside her. All these professional people the world over have unconventional manners, and an acquaintance is often easily made–at least, that has been my experience.
She began by thanking me in French for my share in getting her such comfortable quarters–dropped into German for a sentence or two, as if trying to find out my nationality–and finally into English, saying, parenthetically:
“You are English, are you not?”
No financial magnate this time–rather queer, I thought–that she missed that part of my personality. My room-mate had recognized it, even to the extent of calling me “Your Highness.”
“No, an American.”
“Oh, an American! Yes, I should have known–No, you are not English. You are too kind to be English. An Englishman would not have taken even a little bit of trouble to help us.” I noticed the race prejudice in her tone, but I did not comment on it.
Then followed the customary conversation, I doing most of the talking. I began by telling her how big our country was; how many people we had; how rich the land; how wealthy the citizens; how great the opportunities for artists seeking distinction, etc. We all do that with foreigners. Then I tried to lead the conversation so as to find out something about herself–particularly where she could be seen in Paris. She was charming in her travelling-costume–she would be superb in low neck and bare arms, her pets snuggling under her chin, or alighting on her upraised, shapely hands. But either she did not understand, or she would not let me see she did–the last, probably, for most professional people dislike all reference to their trade by non-professionals–they object to be even mentally classed by themselves.
While we talked on, the Dog Woman opened the door of her compartment, knocked at the Dog’s door–his Dogship and the maid were inside–patted the brute on his head, and re-entered her compartment and shut the door for the night.
I looked for some recognition between the two members of the same troupe, but my companion gave not the slightest sign that the Dog Woman existed. Jealous, of course, I said to myself. That’s another professional trait.
The Ring Master now passed, raised his hat and entered his compartment. No sign of recognition; rather a cold, frigid stare, I thought.
The Sleeping-Car Manager next stepped through the car, lifted his hat when he caught sight of my companion, tiptoed deferentially until he reached the door, and went on to the next car. She acknowledged his homage with a slight bend of her beautiful head, rose from her seat, gave an order in Russian to her English maid who was standing in the door of her compartment, held out her hand to me with a frank good-night, and closed the door behind her.
I looked in on the bald-headed man. He was tucked away in the upper berth sound asleep.
* * * * *
When the next morning I moved up the long platform of the Gare du Nord in search of a cab, I stepped immediately behind the big Danish hound. He was walking along, his shoulders shaking as he walked, his tongue hanging from his mouth. The Woman had him by a leash, her maid following with the band-boxes, the feather boa, and the parasols. In the crowd behind me walked the bald-headed man, his arm, to my astonishment, through that of the King Master’s. They both kotowed as they switched off to the baggage-room, the Ring Master bowing even lower than my roommate.