"Pour etre heureux, il ne faut avoir rien a oublier."


There is in the atmosphere of the Hotel of the Vieux Doelen at The
Hague something as old-world, as quiet and peaceful, as there is in the
very name of this historic house. The stairs are softly carpeted; the
great rooms are hung with tapestry, and otherwise decorated in a
massive and somewhat gloomy style, little affected in the newer
_caravanserais_. The house itself, more than three hundred years old,
is of dark red brick with facings of stone, long since worn by wind and
weather. The windows are enormous, and would appear abnormal in any
other city but this. The Hotel of the Old Shooting gallery stands on
the Toornoifeld and the unobservant may pass by without distinguishing
it from the private houses on either side. This, indeed, is not so much
a house of hasty rest for the passing traveler as it is a halting-place
for that great army which is ever moving quietly on and on through the
cities of the Old World--the corps diplomatique--the army whose
greatest victory is peace. The traveller passing a night or two at the
hotel may well be faintly surprised at the atmosphere in which he finds
himself. If he be what is called a practical man, he will probably
shake his head forebodingly over the prospects of the proprietor. There
seems, indeed, to be a singular dearth of visitors. The winding stairs
are nearly always deserted. The _salon_ is empty. There are no sounds
of life, no trunks in the hall, and no idlers at the door. And yet at
the hour of the _table d'hote_ quiet doors are opened, and quiet men
emerge from rooms that seemed before to be uninhabited. They are mostly
smooth-haired men with a pensive reserve of manner, a certain polished
cosmopolitan air, and the inevitable frock-coat. They bow gravely to
each other, and seat themselves at separate tables. As often as not