I thanked him, or perhaps I forgot to, and returned to my taxi.
“Passage de Haynau in Rue Croix Nivert,” I said.
“Q’numéro?”
“There ain’t none.”
“Come on,” demanded the driver.
“I told you there was no number. We’ll just have to keep looking till we find it.”
We convinced the guardian of the gate that we weren’t trying to cheat on gasoline, and rolled into Rue Croix Nivert about thirteen o’clock. My chauffeur sat nonchalantly in his accustomed seat while I made a house-to-house canvass of Haynau’s Passage. The last house was the right one. I knew it in an instant, for when I entered the corridor a French sentry popped up and placed the end of his bayonet within an inch of Nose-prominent.
“Captain Vandervelde,” said I, making a short strategical retreat.
“Come on,” said Frenchy without lowering his sticker.
A password was what he wanted, and Mr. Poincaré had forgotten to call me up and give me the correct one for the day. I produced a two-franc piece and held it out. The sentry withdrew his weapon, accepted the coin, and allowed me to pass.
“The word,” I thought to myself, “must be Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.”
Captain Vandervelde was in and made me wait only half an heure, the while I thought more than once of yon taxi. Finally I was summoned to the inner office.
“What can je faire pour vous?” he inquired.
I told him I wanted an order on the ⸻ branch factory for some tools and four new tires.
“Rien fairing on the tires,” he said.
“Pourquoi?” I asked him.
“Orders pour tires must come from the Maison de la Guerre.”
“Can you fix me for the tools?”
“Ah, oui. What tools voulez-vous?”
“Une roue-tirer et un offset clef à vis.”
“Votre papers, s’il vous plaît.”
I handed him passport, American pass, and salmon-pink card. He glanced them over, then began rummaging in a drawer. I knew what was coming—another dossier.
“Avez-vous une photophie?” he asked.
“Ah, oui,” says I, and slipped him one of the remaining five.
He kept the dossier and photophie for the amusement of himself and progeny. He gave me only a mauve card which said I was entitled to one wheel puller and one left-handed offset monkey wrench.
I told my driver we had to hurry right back to Le Vallois-Perret. He looked crestfallen.
“Je have had no déjeûner,” he said.
“Neither have je,” I said, and climbed in.
Thursday, September 13. Paris.
Up early and to the garage. Delivered the tools. “Vous had better buy a tire pump,” said my adviser.
“Je suppose,” said I, “that I’ll have to get an order for one from Papa Joffre.”
“No,” he said. “That’s une chose vous can buy sans an order.”
“Voulez-vous get to work on the car right away?”
“Ah, oui,” says he.
I asked my chauffeur to take me to a maison du tire pumps. We found one on the Champs Élysées. Other things for sale in the store were watches and perfumery. I proceeded thence to French General Headquarters.
The gentleman authorized to sign orders for tires received me cordially and spoke English.
“Certainly,” he said in answer to my request, “if the car is for an American officer. And what is the license number?”
I had to confess I didn’t know.
“Well,” said he, “you go to the garage and find out. Then come back and I’ll give you the order.”
I went to the garage to find out. There was no license.
“Où can je get one?” I asked my friend.
He gave me the address of the license bureau, on Rue Oskaloosa or something. The driver knew where it was.
Monsieur du License surprised me by asking for a picture and taking my description, which I could almost have rhymed by this time—
Hair jet black, but a paucity of it;
Forehead high as the Eiffel tower;
Prominent nose, but it’s mine; I love it;
Eyes the brown of the pansy flower;
Medium mouth, not the best for kisses;
Chin as round as a billiard ball;
Dark complected—Oh, Mister, this is
Me, and I’m better than six feet tall.
“What est the numéro of the engine?”
“Four hundred and fifty-six thousand three hundred and four,” I replied sans batting an eyelash.
He took it down and disappeared into an adjoining room. In a little while he returned with a license plate—secondhand to match the car.
I carried it along to display to the man at G.H.Q., as it is technically known.
“Où can I get the tires?” I asked.
“Anywhere, with that order,” he said.
So I told the driver to go anywhere, and he misunderstood and took me everywhere. The tire maison he chose was as far away as he could drive without crossing the Swiss border.
“Now back to the United States garage,” said I, and we arrived just as they were closing.
My friend told me the car had been “taken down.” When I saw it I was convinced that the “taking down” had been accomplished with shrapnel.
“How many months will it take to put it together again?” I asked.
“Très few minutes,” said the mechanic. “It will be all finished tomorrow midi.”
“It looks all finished now.”
“Avez-vous votre license?” he inquired.
I displayed it triumphantly.
“Ah, oui,” he said. “But that’s just the license for the car. Vous must aussi have a driver’s license.”
“Bonne nuit!” I yelped. “And what for?”
“C’est la loi,” said he. “Everybody who drives in France must have one.”
“How do you get it?”
“You’ll have to go to the Chef de Traffic Police and pass the examination.”
“How long does it take?”
“Très brief. Not more than une heure.”
“Well, will you guarantee to have the car all ready when I come for it at noon tomorrow?”
“Je promise,”
