I asked the aged woman who fulfils the functions of hall-porter at the H�tel de Portugal whether a cab would take me to Pantin.

“Pantin,” she repeated, as she might have said “Timbuctoo.” And she called the proprietor. The proprietor also said “Pantin” as he might have said “Timbuctoo,” and advised me to take the steam-tram which starts from behind the Op�ra, to let that carry me as far as it would, and then, arrived in those distant regions, either to find a cab or to walk the remainder of the distance.

So, armed, I issued forth, and drove to the tram, and placed myself on the top of the tram. And the tram, after much tooting of horns, set out.

Through kilometre after kilometre of gaslit clattering