It provides
copy for the papers and harmless excitement for the participants
--and it certainly gives them a chance to get a little fresh air
occasionally, but with motoring it is different. In Paris there
are no rules of the road except just these two--the pedestrian who
gets run over is liable to prosecution, and all motor cars must
travel at top speed.
If I live to be a million I shall never get over shuddering as I
think back to a taxicab ride I had in the rush hour one afternoon
over a route that extended from away down near the site of the
Bastille to a hotel away up near the Place Vendome. The driver
was a congenital madman, the same as all Parisian taxicab drivers
are; and in addition he was on this occasion acquiring special
merit by being quite drunk. This last, however, was a detail that
did not dawn on my perceptions until too late to cancel the contract.
Once he had got me safely fastened inside his rickety, creaky
devil-wagon he pulled all the stops all the way out and went tearing
up the crowded boulevard like a comet with a can tied to its tail.
I hammered on the glass and begged him to slow down--that is, I
hammered on the glass and tried to beg him to slow down. For just
such emergencies I had previously stocked up with two French
words--"Doucement!" and "Vite!" I knew that one of those words
meant speed and the other meant less speed, but in the turmoil of
the moment I may have confused them slightly.
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