But this was by all odds the most imposing array of military yet.  I remember being distinctly impressed by the comic opera setting; the gay costumed soldiers in a crowded French cafe, the big American and the little heroine.  In a moment the soldier chorus would go rollicking off singing some ditty like: 

“Let high respect come to their station, For they are members of a mighty nation.”

I deliberated for a few seconds, for presently our papers like talismen would exorcise all dangers.  With a gesture suitably sweeping for the close of this act, I smiled assuringly, reached into that inner right-hand pocket, and felt a terrific thump of the heart as I clutched an empty void and forthwith drew out an empty hand.  The smile turned a little sickly.  I repeated.  Likewise a third time.  The smile died and a cold sweat gathered on my brow.  It was now more like a Turkish bath than a comic opera.  The rollicking soldier chorus began to look curiously like a band of assassins.

I was positive that I had tucked these papers in that pocket.  Had some evil spirit whisked them away?  I conducted a frantic and furious search through every pocket.  As one after another they turned out empty an increasing gloom settled down upon my face, and upon the faces of the assassins was registered a corresponding increment of joy.

Reader, have you ever been warden of the theater tickets?  As your party thronged up to the entrance, do you remember the stand-still of your heart when you found that the tickets weren’t in the pocket that you put them, followed by the discovery that they weren’t in any other pocket?  Do you remember spasmodically ramming your hands into all your pockets until your arms took on the motions of a sailor at the pump, trying to save the old ship at sea?  Remember the black looks insinuating you were an idiot and the growing conviction on your part that they were not far wrong?  Multiply and intensify all these sensations a thousandfold and you will get a faint idea of how one feels when he is trying to locate his passports and the officials are hoping that he can’t.

Several months elapsed in as many seconds.  To break the appalling silence, I began gibbering away in a jargon compound of gesticulation, English and remnants of High School French.  Why, oh, why wouldn’t somebody say something?  At last the commissionaire, hitherto impassive, said: 

“Vielleicht Sie konnen Deutsch sprechen.” ("Perhaps you can speak German.”) It was so kind of him that I plunged headlong into the net.  “Ja ich kann Deutsch sprechen,” I fairly shouted.

("Yes, I can speak German.”) I would have confessed to Chinese or Russian, so anxious was I to get on speaking terms with some one.

“So you speak German,” said the commissionaire significantly; “I thought as much.”  The soldiers looked at their Lebel rifles as though the not unpleasant duty of making them speak for France would soon be theirs.  In their eyes now I was a German spy and Marie was my accomplice.  I began to be almost convinced of it myself.