THE CONDUCTOR SEES ME WITH MY FEET ON THE other seat and yells “Les pieds a terre!” (Feet on the ground!) My dreams of being an actual descendant of the Princes of Brittany are shattered also by the old French hoghead blowing at the crossing whatever they blow at French crossings, and of course shattered also by that conductor’s enjoinder, but then I look up at the plaque over the seat where my feet had been :–
“This seat reserved for those wounded in the service of France.”
So I ups and goes to the compartment next, and the conductor looks in to collect my ticket and I say “I didnt see that sign.”
He says “That’s awright, but take your shoes off.”
This King will ride second fiddle to anyone so long’s he can blow like my Lord.