The travellers commenced to prepare their luggage for a quick descent from the train: Quentin put on his hat, stuffed his cap into his pocket, and placed his bag on the seat.
“Sir,” said the Frenchman to him quickly, “I thank you for the information with which you have supplied me. I am Jules Matignon, professor of Spanish in Paris. I believe we shall see each other again in Cordova.”
“My name is Quentin García Roelas.”
They shook hands, and waited for the train to stop: it was already slowing up as it neared the Cordova station.
They arrived; Quentin got off quickly, and crossed the platform, pursued by four or five porters. Confronting one of these who had a red handkerchief on his head, and handing him his bag and check, he ordered him to take them to his house.
“To the Calle de la Zapatería,” he said. “To the store where they sell South American comestibles. Do you know where it is?”
“The house of Don Rafaé? Of course.”
“Good.”
This done, Quentin opened his umbrella, and began to make his way toward the centre of the city.
“It seems as though I hadn’t crossed the Channel at all,” he said to himself, “but were walking along one of those roads near the school. The same grey sky, the same mud, the same rain. Now I am about to see the parks and the river—”