Perhaps we had been some twenty days on our journey by the time we came into France. As we approached that curious country, which in nowise resembles that of Spain, I inquired of my companions wherein this land differed especially from that of its surpassing neighbour.
“It is the inhabitants, good Don, that make the difference,” Sir Richard Pendragon informed me. “They grimace like monkeys and are addicted to the practice of eating frogs.”
“But, good Sir Richard Pendragon,” said I, “the worshipful Count of Nullepart is of this nation, and upon my life I have never observed him grimace like a monkey, and I will answer for it that his table manners are so delicate that he would eschew the practice of eating frogs.”
“My dear Don Miguel,” said the Count of Nullepart, smiling, “upon what pretext do you associate one so inconsiderable as myself with that meritorious nation, the French?”
“Surely, Sir Count, your name is your guarantee,” I rejoined. “At least I have always understood it to be so.”
“In that particular you are doubtless correct, my dear Don Miguel,” said the Count of Nullepart, “at least that is when I travel in Spain. But now we are over the French border I rejoice in a better.”
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.”