“Somewhat!” exclaimed Henriette Cyne.

“Always supposing, of course, that they did,” persisted the doctor, more calmly.

“If it is amazing that they happened,” continued Marcueil imperturbably, “it is far less amazing that no one has ever believed him. And it’s a good thing for the baron, too. Can you imagine the unbearable life an envious and malicious society would have led a man who had seen such miracles? He would have been held responsible for every unexplained occurrence and every unpunished crime, the way witches were burned in olden times. . .”

“He would have been worshiped as God,” said Ellen Elson, who had been called back by her father in deference to Baron Munchausen, a topic within a young lady’s scope.

“Yet what freedom would he not have enjoyed,” concluded Marcueil, “when you think that, even were he to commit crimes, universal disbelief would furnish him with an alibi!”

“And how is it,” whispered Mrs. Gough, “that a little while ago you came so near to imitating the baron?”

“I did not relate anything after it happened, madame,” said Marcueil, “since, unfortunately, I am not a person whose adventures are worth relating. . .”

“When do you tell, then?. . . before?” said Henriette Cyne.

“Tell what? and before what?” retorted Marcueil. “Come now, my dear, let’s forget about these ‘tall tales,’ as our old friend the general so aptly terms them.”

“Bravo, my dear fellow! Personally I only believe what’s credible,” said Sider approvingly.

Ellen Elson had drawn near to André Marcueil. He was stooping more than ever, his tufted beard made him seem even older, and his eyes seemed even more lackluster behind his pince-nez. In his impersonal evening clothes he seemed more grotesque and pathetic than a carnival mask. His face was hidden behind gold, glass, and hair; his very teeth were invisible behind the bushy drooping of his mustache. The maiden looked straight into the emptiness of the lenses of his pince-nez:

“I believe in the Indian,” she murmured.

His Heart Was Neither on the Right nor on the Left

HIS HEART WAS NEITHER ON THE RIGHT NOR ON THE LEFT

Except when he was being born, André Marcueil had at first had no contact with women, having been suckled by a goat, like any common Jove.

His father was dead, and up to the age of twelve he was raised by his mother and an older sister, passing his childhood in the most complete purity – if the Catholic faith is correct in terming purity the neglect, under pain of eternal suffering, of certain parts of the body.

At the age of twelve, still dressed in a loose-fitting smock and baggy knickerbockers, barelegged, he reached the solemn occasion of his first communion, and a tailor measured him for his first grownup suit.

Little André could not quite understand why men – who are little boys over twelve – could no longer have their clothes made by a dressmaker. . . and he had never seen his penis.