The undefinable smell of the East was in the air.
The Cafe de Bordeaux, which forms an angle of the Place, blazed in front of me.

A few hardy souls, a Zouave or two, an Arab, a bored Englishman and his wife, and some French inhabitants were sitting outside in the chilliness.

I entered.

The cafe was filled with a nondescript crowd, and the rattle of dominoes rose above the hum of talk.

In a corner near the door I discovered the top of a silk hat projecting above a widely opened newspaper grasped by two pudgy hands, and I recognised the Professor.
"Monsieur," said he, when I had taken a seat at his table, "if the unknown terrors which you are going to confront dismay you, I beg that you will not consider yourself bound to me." "My dear Professor," I replied, "a brave man tastes of death but once." He was much delighted at the sentiment, which he took to be original.
"I shall quote it," said he, "whenever my honour or my courage is called into question.