“Now,” he said, “you’ll have to be viséed by the préfet de police and approved by the British Military Control. I don’t know in what order. They change it every two or three days to keep you guessing.”

I chose the British Control first and, of course, was wrong. But it took an hour to find this out.

There was a big crowd of us, and we were all given numbers, as in a barber shop of a Saturday night. But the resemblance to the barber shop ceased with the giving, for they called us regardless of number. A guinea sitting next to me was 42 and I was 18. He preceded me into the sanctum. And I got there ahead of No. 12, a British matron.

My session was brief.

“The police visé must come first,” said the officer in charge.