“Mon vieux, you are laughing at us,” said Bigourdin. “Monsieur Martin, a gentleman, a scholar, a professor——!”
“A speck of human dust in search of a soul,” said Fortinbras.
“Which he’s going to find among dirty plates and dishes,” scoffed Corinna.
“In the eyes of the Distributing Department of the Soul Office of Olympus, where every little clerk is a Deuce of a High God, the clatter of plates and dishes is as important as the clash of armies.”
Corinna looked at Bigourdin. “He’s raving mad,” she said.
Fortinbras rose unruffled and laid a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “My excellent friend and disciple,” said he, “let us leave the company of these obscurantists, and seek enlightenment in the fresh air of heaven.”
Whereupon he led the young man to the terrace and walked up and down discoursing with philosophical plausibility while his white hair caught by the gusty breeze streamed behind like a shaggy meteor.
Bigourdin, who had remained standing, sat down again and said apologetically:
“My brother-in-law is an oddity.”
“I believe you,” assented Corinna.