From the interior of this bus emerge people; and from
the top, by means of a strangely-constructed hooked ladder, are decanted
boxes, trunks, and appurtenances of various sorts. In these people, and
in these boxes, trunks, and appurtenances, are the real interest of the
Grand Hotel du Louvre et de la Paix of the marvellous Rue Cannebiere of
Marseilles.
For at Marseilles land ships, many ships, from all the scattered ends of
the earth; and from Marseilles depart trains for the North, where is
home, or the way home for many peoples. And since the arrival of ships
is uncertain, and the departure of trains fixed, it follows that
everybody descends for a little or greater period at the Grand Hotel du
Louvre et de la Paix.
They come lean and quiet and a little yellow from hard climates, with
the names of strange places on their lips, and they speak familiarly of
far-off things. Their clothes are generally of ancient cut, and the
wrinkles and camphor aroma of a long packing away are yet discernible.
Often they are still wearing sun helmets or double terai hats, pending a
descent on a Piccadilly hatter two days hence. They move slowly and
languidly; the ordinary piercing and dominant English enunciation has
fallen to modulation; their eyes, while observant and alert, look tired.
It is as though the far countries have sucked something from the pith of
them in exchange for great experiences that nevertheless seem of little
value; as though these men, having met at last face to face the ultimate
of what the earth has to offer in the way of danger, hardship,
difficulty, and the things that try men's souls, having unexpectedly
found them all to fall short of both the importance and the final
significance with which human-kind has always invested them, were now
just a little at a loss.
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