MILLIE W. CARPENTER.

“PASSPORTS, GENTLEMEN!”

The close of July, 1870, found our party tarrying for a few days at Geneva.  We had left home with the intention of “doing” Europe in less than four months.  June and July were already gone, but in that time, traveling as only Americans can, Great Britain, Belgium, the Rhine country and portions of Switzerland had been visited and admired.  We were now pausing for a few days to take breath and prepare for yet wider flights.  Our proposed route from Geneva would lead us through Northern Germany, returning by way of Paris to London and Liverpool.

We had intentionally left Paris for the last, hoping that the Communist disturbances would be completely quieted before September.  At this time their forces had been recently routed, and the Versailles troops were occupying the capital.  The leaders of the Commune were scattered in every direction, and, if newspaper accounts were to be believed, were being captured in every city of France.  Especially was this true of the custom-house upon the Swiss frontier, where report said that more than one leading Communist had been stopped by the lynx-eyed officials, who would accept no substitute for the signed and countersigned passport, and hold no parley until such a passport had been presented.

In view of these facts, the American minister in Paris had issued a circular letter to citizens of the United States traveling abroad, requesting them to see that their passports had the official vise before attempting to enter France, thus saving themselves and friends a large amount of unnecessary trouble and delay.  Nothing was said of those who might think proper to attempt an entrance without a passport, such temerity being in official eyes beyond all advice or protection.  Influenced by this letter and several facts which had come under our notice proving the uncertainty of all things, and especially of travel in France, we saw that our passports were made officially correct.

While at Geneva our party separated for a few days.  My friends proposed making an expedition up the lake, while I arranged to spend a day and night at Aix-les-Bains, a small town in the south of France.  My object in visiting it was not to enjoy the sulphur-baths for which it is famous, but to see some friends who were spending the summer there.  I had written, telling them to expect me by the five o’clock train on Wednesday afternoon.  As my stay was to be so brief, I left my valise at the hotel in Geneva, and found myself now, for the first time, separated from that trusty sable friend which had until this hour been my constant companion by day and night.

The train was just leaving the station when a lady sitting opposite to me, with her back to the locomotive, asked, in French, if I would be willing to change seats.  Catching her meaning rather by her gestures than words, I inquired in English if she would like my seat, and found by her reply that I was traveling with an English lady.