“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.