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I
see him strutting about and boasting of his intellect. I see him taking
leave of Lola Brandt, and trotting magnificently out of the room bent on
finding Captain Vauvenarde. He haunts my slumbers. I hope to goodness he
will not take to haunting this delectable hotel.
I wonder, after all, whether there is any method in his madness--for mad
he is, as mad as can be. Why does he come backwards and forwards between
Algiers and Marseilles? What has Saupiquet to do with his quest? What
revelation was he about to make on the payment of his fifteen sous?
It is all so grotesque, so out of relation with ordinary life. I feel
inclined to go up to the retired Colonels and elderly maiden ladies, who
seem to form the majority of my fellow-guests, and pinch them and ask
them whether they are real, or, like Papadopoulos and Saupiquet, the
gentler creatures of a nightmare.
Well, I have written to the Lieutenant-Colonel of the 3rd Regiment of
Chasseurs at Tlemcen, which is away down by the Morocco frontier. I have
also written to Lola Brandt.


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