"Monsieur forgets that he has a berth. It is not the fault of the
_compagnie_ that he is without a bed. Did not M'sieur book the
compartment himself? _Tres bien!_"
As the result of strong persuasion, the _garde_ consented to make "the
grand tour" of the train de luxe in search of a berth. It goes without
saying that he was intensely mystified by Brock's incautious remark that
he would be satisfied with "an upper if he couldn't do any better." For
the life of him, Monsieur the _garde_ could not comprehend the
situation. He went away, shaking his head and looking at the tickets, as
much as to say that an American is never satisfied--not even with the
best.
Brock lowered a window-seat in the passage and sat down, staring blankly
and blackly out into the whizzing night. The predicament had come upon
him so suddenly that he had not until now found the opportunity to
analyse it in its entirety. The worst that could come of it, of course,
was the poor comfort of a night in a chair. He knew that it was a train
of sleeping-coaches--Ah! He suddenly remembered the luggage van! As a
last resort, he might find lodging among the trunks!
And then, too, there was something irritating in the suspicion that she
had laughed as if it were a huge joke--perhaps, even now, she was
doubled up in her narrow couch, stifling the giggle that would not be
suppressed.
When the _garde_ came back with the lugubrious information that nothing,
positively nothing, was to be had, it is painful to record that Brock
swore in a manner which won the deepest respect of the trainman.
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