"So that I may not be recognized, my friend. I don't like having to give royal tips everywhere."
Fandor was not speaking the truth. His disguise was assumed for other reasons. He did not wish to be recognized either as Frederick-Christian or as Fandor. Since noon—and it was now ten o'clock at night—the two men had been doing Paris together, and Wulf had received the very gratifying appellations of "my excellent friend," "my subtle detective," and other flattering names, so he was now dreaming of decorations, new decorations created especially for him.
Fandor interrupted his thoughts by patting him familiarly on the shoulder:
"Now that we've had dinner, I'm going to tell you something. We've had quite a day of it; we've visited the Bois, where you spat in the lake, the action of a reflective mind; we've been to the top of the Arc de Triomphe and to the Madeleine, so now there is only one joy remaining."
Wulf nodded: "To pay for the dinner."
"Not exactly," laughed Fandor, "that's more of a penance. No, I was referring to a chance meeting, a charming feminine figure, a kiss, a caress. Wulf, what would you say to two plump white arms around your neck?"
Wulf became purple in the face.
"Oh, Sire, that would be great! But when I am with your Majesty, I don't look at women."
"And why not, Wulf?"
"Because the women only look at you."