in Holywell Street, we
marched up Fleet Street into the City, and entered a stupendous,
unimagined building which Paragot informed me was his bank. Elegant
gentlemen behind the counter shovelled gold to and fro with the same
casual indifference as I had seen grocers' assistants shovel tea. One of
them, a gorgeous fellow wearing a white pique tie and a horse-shoe pin,
paid such deference to Paragot that I went out prodigiously impressed by
my master's importance. I was convinced that he owned the establishment,
and during the next quarter of an hour I could not speak to him for awe.

It was about two o'clock when we reached Victoria Station. There Paragot
discovered, for the first time, that there was not a train till nine in
the evening. It had not occurred to him that trains did not start for
Paris at quarter of an hour intervals during the day.

"My son," said he, "now is the time to make practical use of our
philosophy. Instead of heaping vain maledictions on the Railway Company,
let us deposit our luggage in the cloak room and take a walk on the
Thames Embankment."

We walked thither and sat on a vacant bench beside the Cleopatra's
Needle. It was a warm May afternoon. My young mind and body fired by the
excitements of the day found rest in the sunny idleness. It was
delicious to be here, instead of washing up plates and dishes with Mrs.
Housekeeper. Paragot took off his old slouch hat, stretched himself
easefully and sighed.

"I am anxious to get to Paris to consult Henri Quatre."

"Who is Henri Quatre, Master?" I asked.

"Henri Quatre is on the Pont Neuf. That is a French saying which means
that Queen Anne is dead. He was a great King of France and his statue on
horseback is in the middle of a great bridge across the Seine called the
Pont Neuf. He is a great friend of mine. I will tell you a story. Once
upon a time there lived in Paris a magnificent young man who thought
himself a genius. He _was_ a genius, my little Asticot. A genius is a
man who writes immortal books, paints immortal pictures, rears immortal
buildings and commits immortal follies. Don't be a genius, my son, it
isn't good for anybody. Well, this young man was clad in purple and fine
linen and fared sumptuously every day. He also had valuable furniture.
One evening something happened to annoy him."

Paragot paused.

"What annoyed him?" I asked.

"A flaw in what he had conceived to be the scheme of the universe,"
replied my master. "It an