“Ay!” says Touchstone; “now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at home I was in a better place.”

Now am I in Algiers; the more fool I; et cetera, et cetera.

It is true that from my bedroom window in the Albany I cannot see the moon silvering the Mediterranean, or hear the soft swish of pepper-trees; it is true that oranges and eucalyptus do not flourish in the Albany Court-yard as they do in this hotel garden at Mustapha Superieur; it is true that the blue African sky and sunshine are more agreeable than Piccadilly fogs; but, after all, his own kennel is best for a dying dog, and his own familiar surroundings best for his declining hours.  Again, Touchstone had not the faintest idea what he was going to do in the Forest of Arden, and I was equally ignorant of what would befall when I landed at Algiers.  He was bound on a fool adventure, and so was I. He preferred the easy way of home, and so do I. I have always loved Touchstone, but I have never thoroughly understood him till now.

It rained persistently in Paris.  It rained as I drove from the Gare du Nord to my hotel.  It rained all night.  It rained all the day I spent there and it rained as I drove from my hotel to the Gare de Lyon.  A cheery newspaper informed me that there were torrential rains at Marseilles.  I mentioned this to Rogers, who tried to console me by reminding me that we were only staying at Marseilles for a few hours.

“That has nothing to do with it,” said I.  “At Marseilles I always eat bouillabaisse on the quay.  Fancy eating bouillabaisse in the pouring rain!”

As usual, Rogers could not execute the imaginative exercise I prescribed; so he strapped my hold-all with an extra jerk.

Now, when homespun London is wet and muddy, no one minds very much.  But when silken Paris lies bedraggled with rain and mud, she is the forlornest thing under the sky.  She is a hollow-eyed pale city, the rouge is washed from her cheeks, her hair hangs dank and dishevelled, in her aspect is desolation, and moaning is in her voice.  I have a Sultanesque feeling with regard to Paris.  So long as she is amusing and gay I love her.  I adore her mirth, her chatter, her charming ways.  But when she has the toothache and snivels, she bores me to death.  I lose all interest in her.  I want to clap my hands for my slaves, in order to bid them bring me in something less dismal in the way of fair cities.

I drove to the Rue Saint-Dominique and handed in my card and letter of introduction at the Ministere de la Guerre.  I was received by the official in charge of the Bureau des Renseignements with bland politeness tempered with suspicion that I might be taking a mental photograph of the office furniture in order to betray its secret to a foreign government.  After many comings and goings of orderlies and underlings, he told me very little in complicated and reluctant language.  Captain Vauvenarde had resigned his commission in the Chasseurs d’Afrique two years ago.  At the present moment the Bureau had no information to give as to his domicile.