New Mysteries of Paris

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I was recently told a story that was so stupid, se so melancholy, and so moving: a man comes in into a hotel one day and asks to rent a room. He is shown up to number 35. As he comes down a few minutes later and leaves the key at the desk, he says: ‘Excuse me, I have no memory at all. If you please, each time I come in, I’ll tell you my name: Monsieur Delouit. And each time you’ll tell me the number of my room.’ ‘Very well, Monsieur.’ Soon afterwards, he returns, and as he passes the desk says: ‘Monsieur Delouit.’ ‘Number 35 Monsieur.’ ‘Thank you.’ A minute later, a man extra ordinarily upset, his clothes covered with mud, bleeding, his face almost not a face at all, appears at the desk. ‘Monsieur Delouit.’ ‘What do you mean, Monsieur Delouit? Don’t try to put one over on us! Monsieur Delouit has just gone upstairs!’ ‘I’m sorry, it’s me. I’ve just fallen out of the window. What’s the number of my room please?’

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