Lafcadio sprang from the bench. In a moment he had made up his mind. Forgetting his book, he hurried off to a stationer’s shop in the Rue de Médicis, where he remembered having seen in the window a notice that visiting-cards were printed “while you wait at three francs the hundred.” He smiled as he went, amused by the boldness of his idea and possessed by the spirit of adventure.
“How long will it take to print a hundred cards?” he asked the shopkeeper.
“You can have them before nightfall.”
“I’ll pay you double if you let me have them by two o’clock this afternoon.”
The shopkeeper made a pretence of consulting his order-book.
“Very well ... to oblige you. You can call for them at two o’clock. What name?”
Then, without a tremor or a blush, but with a heart that beat a little unsteadily, he signed:
Lafcadio de Baraglioul.
“The rascal doesn’t believe me,” said he to himself as he left, for he was piqued that the shopkeeper’s bow had not been lower. Then, as he looked at his reflection in a shop window, “I must admit I don’t look very like a Baraglioul,” he thought. “We must see whether we can’t improve the resemblance before this afternoon.”
It was not yet twelve o’clock. Lafcadio, who was in a state of madcap exhilaration, had not begun to feel hungry.