“Yes,” he cried, clapping his chest; “for know that thou speak’st with Quatremains-Quatrepattes himself!” He dwelt on the pause that followed; collapsed from it; regarded me, it seemed, in astonishment. “Thou hast not heard of me?” “Again the interpreter of dreams justifies himself.” He looked away from me, in a high manner of abstraction. “And this is for the sunshine of fame to throw one’s shadow over half the world!” said he. “Maybe thy fame is at its meridian, citizen, and thy shadow consequently a little fat blot at thy feet?” He turned to me again. “Oh yes,” he cried sarcastically. “I am Quatremains-Quatrepattes, and some outside the beaten track know my name, perhaps. But possibly the citizen has never heard even of Jean Cazotte?” “On the contrary; I have seen and spoken with him.” “_Par exemple!_ The man was a charlatan. He could foretell everything but his own guillotining last year. And yet thou art ignorant--well, well!” He threw up his hands in deprecation; then came and sat down on the grass beside me. “_Cela m’est égal_, M. Quatremains-Quatrepattes,” said I. “Ah!” he said; “but I will convince thee at once. Describe to me thy dream.” “I dreamt I wrestled with an angel and was overthrown.” “Thy mistress has quarrelled with and rejected thee.” “An obvious deduction. Yet I will assure you she is no angel.” “Canst thou say so? But we are all of the seed of Lucifer. Proceed.” “I dreamt how a great march grew out of a single accident of sound.” Here I was watchful of him, and I saw some relish twitch his lips. He assumed an air of tense introspection, groping with his soul, like a fakir, amongst the reflex images thrown upon the backs of his eyeballs. “I hear a note,” he said presently, as if speaking to himself--“one vibrant accent like the clipt song of a bullet. Is it struck from an instrument or from any resounding vessel? It comes down the wind--it clangs--it passes. Nay--it signifies only that some winged insect has fled by the ear of a solitary traveller resting on an ancient bridge; yet from that little bugle-sound shall the traveller learn to date the processes of a long and fruitless journey.” I broke into a great laugh. “Most excellent!” I cried. “Thou hast an ingenuity of adaptation that should make thy fortune--even at the very low rate of fifty centimes the job.” His eyebrows lifted at me. “Why, M. Quatremains-Quatrepattes--M. Jacquemart,” said I,--“I knew thee listening to me just now; and I heard thee steal away and come again. It is easy to construe with the key in one’s hand.” He was no whit abashed. “_Cela m’est égal_,” he said serenely, echoing my words. “But I can foretell one’s future, nevertheless, very exactly.” “Why, so can I, if I am not to be called upon to verify my statements.” He looked suddenly in my face. “Thou art a disguised aristocrat.” “Better and better. But are we not all such to ourselves? The soul is excessively exclusive.”