The
older sought out the station master, who having nothing to do was taking
a siesta in a miniature waiting-room. The general countenance of the
place was exceedingly depressing; but I attempted to keep up my spirits
with the reflection that after all all this was but a junction, and that
from here we were to take a train for Marseilles herself. The name of the
station, Briouse, I found somewhat dreary. And now the older returned
with the news that our train wasn't running today, and that the next
train didn't arrive till early morning and should we walk to Marseilles?
I could check my great _sac_ and overcoat. The small _sac_ I should carry
along--it was only a step, after all.
With a glance at the desolation of Briouse I agreed to the stroll. It was
a fine night for a little promenade; not too cool, and with a promise of
a moon stuck into the sky. The _sac_ and coat were accordingly checked by
the older; the station master glanced at me and haughtily grunted (having
learned that I was an American); and my protectors and I set out.
I insisted that we stop at the first cafe and have some wine on me. To
this my escorts agreed, making me go ten paces ahead of them, and waiting
until I was through before stepping up to the bar--not from politeness,
to be sure, but because (as I soon gathered) _gendarmes_ were not any too
popular in this part of the world, and the sight of two _gendarmes_ with
a prisoner might inspire the habitues to attempt a rescue.
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