"Yes, for the elvishly lovely city of Escargot, where the canals reflect the shimmering palace of the doge and the Cathedral of the Sacred Snail," replied Arafrantz. "I must drop out of the story, for la narrative irrelevancy, c'est moi," he added, with the farsightedness of his kindred.
"Say not so, monsieur," protested the Count. "You have yet to play a minor role in one of my projects."
"Vous me faites là, monsieur le comte, one of those consolations that, were they not ridiculous, would be sublime," returned Arafrantz.
"Bon voyage, messieurs," said the Count, extending a hand to each of the young friends.
It was the first time that Arafrantz touched the hand of that man. The hand had only four fingers, but they were, Arafrantz esteemed, more than sufficient; for as he grasped it he felt a thin piercing chill, and he saw to his astonishment that the hand glowed with a pale light, although it was black and yet burned like fire.
"It is decided, then?" said Réginard. "10:13 a.m. on the second Naréal, at Rue Baguechotte, n° 3?"
