It is most fortunate that he did not die on the voyage. In
my opinion, he is very near the end."
I turned away with a lighter heart. From a dying man there could not
be much to fear. So I hunted up Mr. Royce, and found him, finally,
endeavoring to extract some information from a supercilious official
in a gold-laced uniform.
It was, it seemed, a somewhat complicated proceeding to get to
Etretat. In half an hour, a train would leave for Beuzeville, where we
must transfer to another line to Les Ifs; there a second transfer
would be necessary before we could reach our destination. How long
would it take? Our informant shrugged his shoulders with fine
nonchalance. It was impossible to say. There had been a heavy storm
two days before, which had blown down wires and damaged the little
spur of track between Les Ifs and the sea. Trains were doubtless
running again over the branch, but we could not, probably, reach
Etretat before morning.
Amid this jumble of uncertainties, one definite fact remained--a train
was to leave in half an hour, which we must take. So we hurried back
to the boat, made our declaration, had our boxes examined
perfunctorily and passed, bought our tickets, saw our baggage
transferred, tipped a dozen people, more or less, and finally were
shut into a compartment two minutes before the hour.
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