The door opened; and I heard the interviewer's steps in the room. By and by, the sound of a pocket being searched was distinct. It was his own. A match was pulled out and struck; the premises examined and reconnoitered. A chandelier with three lights hung in the middle of the room. The reporter, speechless and solemn, lighted one burner, then two, then three, chose the most comfortable seat, and installed himself in it, looking at me with an air of triumph. I was sitting up, wild and desheveled, in my "retiring" clothes. "_Que voulez-vous?_" I wanted to yell, my state of drowsiness allowing me to think only in French. Instead of translating this query by "What do you want?" as I should have done, if I had been in the complete enjoyment of my intellectual faculties, I shouted to him: "What will you have?" "Oh, thanks, I'm not particular," he calmly replied. "I'll have a little whisky and soda--rye whisky, please." My face must have been a study as I rang for whisky and soda. The mixture was brought--for two. "I suppose you have no objection to my smoking?" coolly said the man in the room. "Not at all," I remarked; "this is perfectly lovely; I enjoy it all." He pulled out his pocket-book and his pencil, crossed his legs, and having drawn a long whiff from his cigar, he said: "I see that you have no lecture to deliver in Brushville; may I ask you what you have come here for?" "Now," said I, "what the deuce is that to you? If this is the kind of questions you have to ask me, you go----" He pocketed the rebuff, and went on undisturbed: "How are you struck with Brushville?" "I am struck," said I, "with the cheek of some of the inhabitants. I have driven to this hotel from the depot in a closed carriage, and I have seen nothing of your city." The man wrote down something. "I lecture to-morrow night," I continued, "before the students of the State University, and I have come here for rest." He took this down. "All this, you see, is very uninteresting; so, good-night." And I disappeared. The interviewer rose and came to my side. "Really, now that I am here, you may as well let me have a chat with you." "You wretch!" I exclaimed. "Don't you see that I am dying for sleep? Is there nothing sacred for you? Have you lost all sense of charity? Have you no mother? Don't you believe in future punishment? Are you a man or a demon?" "Tell me some anecdotes, some of your reminiscences of the road," said the man, with a sardonic grin. I made no reply. The imperturbable reporter resumed his seat and smoked. "Are you gone?" I sighed, from under the blankets. The answer came in the following words: "I understand, sir, that when you were a young man----" "When I was WHAT?" I shouted, sitting up once more. "I understand, sir, that when you were _quite_ a young man," repeated the interviewer, with the sentence improved, "you were an officer in the French army." "I was," I murmured, in the same position.