I inquired his further title with some surprise. “Upon the curious soil of France,” said the Count of Nullepart, “I go by the name of Señor Fulano or Mr. What-you-will.” “I protest, Sir Count, I do not understand this matter at all.” “I pray you seek not to do so, my dear,” said the Count of Nullepart. “It is only that I choose to have it so as becomes a free born citizen of the world.” I could get no further enlightenment from the Count of Nullepart, and no sooner had we crossed into France than my mystification was increased. At the inn at the first town we came to, of which I forget the name, the Count of Nullepart declared solemnly that we must speak for him on all occasions, for by a singular mischance he had entirely mislaid the use of the French tongue. And, further, he assured us that this grave calamity had had the unprecedented consequence of stimulating in the highest degree the growth of his chin hairs. Indeed, this growth was so remarkable that even upon our first day in France he had acquired quite a large beard. Instead, then, of the gay, sprightly, and handsome Count of Nullepart, an admired member of the French nobility, with whom we had come upon our journey from Toledo, we had for a companion upon French soil one Señor Fulano, a staid, sober, and bearded citizen, who claimed cousinship with the burgomaster of the town of El Dorado, a place of which I had never heard the name. “I protest, Sir Count,” said I, “there is no such place as El Dorado in the length and breadth of our peninsula.” This caused the Count of Nullepart and Sir Richard Pendragon a vast amount of mirth, and I heard the latter declare that even his preposterous horse Melanto was chuckling furiously. “The truth is, good Master Fulano,” said the Englishman, “these youthful Spaniardoes have so little fantasy as a trussed fowl. Personally I ascribe their heaviness to the dryness of their climate and the rough quality of their wines.” “That is the root of the matter, doubtless,” said the Count of Nullepart in a most execrable and rustic Spanish which you would think a gentleman would be careful not to use. Be this as it may, from the moment we crossed into France, and during the whole time of our sojourn in that unprofitable country, the Count of Nullepart, or Señor Fulano as he would have us call him, had no French at all. Whenever he had occasion to speak he used Spanish of a most rustic and barbarous sort.