“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.”
“You will not consider I have earned my fee?” said he.