To begin with, you have about finished your soup, when a station official appears at the door and informs all the feeding passengers in an assuring and encouraging voice that they have “encore dix-huit minutes”—­as much as to say, “Pray, my dear Monsieur, or Madame, as the case may be, do not hurry over that capital portion of boeuf braise a l’Imperiale, but enjoy its full flavour at your perfect leisure.  There is not, pray believe me, the remotest occasion for any excitement or hurry.”  A little later on, in your repast, when you are just, perhaps, beginning to wonder whether you oughtn’t to be thinking about returning to the train, the good fairy official again appears at the door, this time announcing that you have “encore douze minutes” in the same encouraging tones, that seem to say, “Now, I beg you will quite finish that excellent ‘poulet’ and ‘salade.’  Believe me, you have ample time.  Trust to me.  I charge myself with the responsibility of seeing that you catch your train calmly and comfortably;” which he certainly does, looking in again as Madame comes round, and you pay her her modest demand of three francs fifty for her excellently-cooked and well-served repast (vin compris), with the final announcement of, “Maintenant en voiture, Mesdames et Messieurs,” that find you comfortably seated in your place again, with three minutes to spare before the departure of the train.  But perhaps the best testimony to the excellence of the management may be found in the fact that the Dilapidated One was not only got out, but well fed, and put back in his place, with a whole minute to spare, without any excitement, or more than the usual expenditure of nerve-force required for the undertaking.

“I will, when Monsieur desires it, make up the bed for ’im,” volunteers the military officer, towards eleven o’clock; and, as there isn’t much going on, we say, “All right—­we’ll have it now;” and we disport ourselves in the corridor, while he works a sort of transformation in our Gladstone Bag compartment, which seems greatly to diminish its “containing” capacity.  Indeed, if it were not for the floor, the ceiling, and the walls, one would hardly know where to stow one’s packages. Le train de Luxe I know has come in, of late, for some abuse, and some grumblers have made a dead set at it.  I don’t know what their experience of a lit de luxe may have been, but, if it was anything like mine, they must have experienced a general feeling of wanting about a foot more room every way, coupled with a strong and morbid inclination to kick off roof, sides, back, and, in fact, everything, so as, somehow, to secure it.