"If you will give your visiting-card, I will submit it to the
Secretariat."
I produced my card; Anastasius thrust a pencil into my hand.
"Write my name on it, too."
I obeyed. The raven sent the porter with the card into the room on the
right, and resumed the perusal of his soiled newspaper. I looked at
Anastasius. The little man was quivering with excitement. The porter
returned after a few minutes with a couple of pink oval cards which he
handed to each of us. I glanced at mine. On it was inscribed: _Cercle
Africain d'Alger. Carte de Member Honoraire. Une soiree_. And then there
was a line for the honorary member's signature. The raven man dipped a
pen in the ink-pot in front of him and handed it to me.
"Will you sign, Messieurs?"
We executed this formality; he retained the cards, and opening the great
door, said:
"_Entrez, Messieurs_!"
The door closed behind us. It was simply a _tripot_, or gambling-den.
And all this solemn farce of Secretariats and _cartes d'entree_ to
obtain admission! It is curious how the bureaucratic instinct is
ingrained in the French character.
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