The name was not utterly unknown to him; he had seen works signed with it at Paris and at Rome—strange things of a singular power, of a union of cynicism and idealism, which was too coarse for one-half the world, and too pure for the other half.
"Arslàn?—I think I remember. I will see what I can do."
"You will say nothing to him of me."
"I could not say much. Who are you? Whence do you come?"
"I live at the water-mill of Yprès. They say that Reine Flamma was my mother. I do not know: it does not matter."
"What is your name?"
"Folle-Farine. They called me after the mill-dust."
"A strange namesake."
"What does it matter? Any name is only a little puff of breath—less than the dust, anyhow."
"Is it? I see, you are a Communist."