is also deformed by tramcars.  I strolled leisurely up, thinking of the many swans that were geese, and Paradises that were building-plots, and heroes that were dummies, and solidities that were shadows, in short, enjoying a gentle post-prandial mood, when my eyes suddenly fell on a scene which brought me down from such realities to the realm of the fantastic.  There, a few yards in front of me, at the outer edge of the terrace of a cafe, clad in his eternal silk hat, frock coat, and yellow gloves, sat Professor Anastasius Papadopoulos in earnest conversation with a seedy stranger of repellent mien.  The latter was clean-shaven and had a broken nose, and wore a little round, soft felt hat.  The dwarf was facing me.  As he caught sight of me a smile of welcome overspread his Napoleonic features.  He rose, awaited my approach, and, bareheaded, made his usual sweeping bow, which he concluded by resting his silk hat on the pit of his stomach.  I lifted my hat politely and would have passed on, but he stood in my path.  I extended my hand.  He took it after the manner of a provincial mayor receiving royalty.

“Couvrez-vous, Monsieur, je vous en prie,” said I.

He covered his head.  “Monsieur,” said he, “I beseech you to be seated, and do me the honour of joining me in the coffee and excellent cognac of this establishment.”

“Willingly,” said I, mindful of Lola’s tale of the long knife which he carried concealed about his person.

“Permit me to present my friend Monsieur Achille Saupiquet—­Monsieur de Gex, a great English statesman and a friend of that gnadigsten Engel, Madame Lola Brandt.”

Monsieur Saupiquet and I saluted each other formally.  I took a seat.  Professor Anastasius Papadopoulos moved a bundle of papers tied up with pink ribbon from in front of me, and ordered coffee and cognac.

“Monsieur Saupiquet also knows Madame Brandt,” he explained.

“Bien sur,” said Monsieur Saupiquet.  “She owes me fifteen sous.”

Papadopoulos turned on his sharply.  “Will you be silent!”

The other grumbled beneath his breath.

“I hope Madame is well,” said Papadopoulos.

I said that she appeared so, when last I had the pleasure of seeing her.  The dwarf turned to his friend.

“Monsieur has also done my cats the honour of attending a rehearsal.  He has seen Hephaestus, and his tears have dropped in sympathy over the irreparable loss of my beautiful Santa Bianca.”

“I hope the talented survivors,” said I, “are enjoying their usual health.”

“My daily bulletin from my pupil and assistant, Quast, contains excellent reports. Prosit, Signore.”

It was only when I found myself at the table with the dwarf and his broken-nosed friend that I collected my wits sufficiently to realise the probable reason of his presence in Marseilles.  The grotesque little creature had actually kept his ridiculous word.  He, too, had come south in search of the lost Captain Vauvenarde.  We were companions in the Fool Adventure.  There was something mediaeval in the combination; something legendary.  Put back the clock a few centuries and there we were, the Knight and the Dwarf, riding together on our quest, while the Lady for whose sake we were making idiots of ourselves was twiddling her fair thumbs in her tower far beyond the seas.