"I have something important to say to Henri Quatre."
"You can say it better," I urged, "in the Rue des Saladiers."
"To the Pont Neuf," said he brusquely, pushing me away.
I had to humour him. We started up the Boulevard Saint-Michel. It was drizzling with rain.
"Master, we had better go home."
He did not reply, but strode on. I have a catlike dislike of rain. I bear it philosophically, but that is all. To carry on a conversation during a persistent downpour is beyond my powers. I might as well try to sing under water. Paragot, who ordinarily was indifferent to the seasons' difference, and would discourse gaily in a deluge, walked on in silence. We went along amid the umbrella-covered crowd, past the steaming terraces of cafés, whose lights set the kiosques in a steady glare and sent shafts of yellow from the tops of stationary cabs, and caught the wet passing traffic in livid flashes, and illuminated faces to an unreal significance; down the gloom-enveloped, silent quais frowned upon by the dim and monstrous masses of architecture, guarding the Seine like phantasmagorical bastions, none visible in outline, but only felt looming in the rain-filled night, until we reached the statue of Paragot's tutelary King. And the rain fell miserably.
We were wet through. I put my hand on his dripping sleeve.
"Master, let me see you home."
He shook me off roughly.
"You can go."