When I awoke, somebody whom I mistook at first for a Field-Marshal,
and from force of habit--I was once a volunteer--saluted, was
standing over me, pointing melodramatically at my bag. I assured
him in picturesque German that I had nothing to declare. He did not
appear to comprehend me, which struck me as curious, and took the
bag away from me, which left me nothing to sit upon but the floor.
But I felt too sleepy to be indignant.

After our luggage had been examined, we went into the buffet. My
instinct had not misled me: there I found hot coffee, and rolls and
butter. I ordered two coffees with milk, some bread, and some
butter. I ordered them in the best German I knew. As nobody
understood me, I went and got the things for myself. It saves a
deal of argument, that method. People seem to know what you mean in
a moment then.

B. suggested that while we were in Belgium, where everybody spoke
French, while very few indeed knew German, I should stand a better
chance of being understood if I talked less German and more French.

He said:

"It will be easier for you, and less of a strain upon the natives.
You stick to French," he continued, "as long as ever you can. You
will get along much better with French. You will come across people
now and then--smart, intelligent people--who will partially
understand your French, but no human being, except a thought-reader,
will ever obtain any glimmering of what you mean from your German."