Bossuet stares dumbfounded at the tree, and at the traffic beyond it, and at the crowd of teens. That, at least, he knows how to respond to. He tips his hat and leers absurdly at one of the girls. "Why, Mesdemoiselles, my friend and I were just slaying a dragon. Naturally we are armed. Do you like the look of my lance? Very firm, a nice size, just the thing to satisfy damsels in distress. No?"

He starts to saunter off around the corner, looking as nonchalant as he possibly can.