It Yet May Not Be He

As we know, Paul Verlaine had earlier returned to the Gemtree Caravan Park.

He had been persuaded by Mathilde to try his hand again at fishing in the billabong.

You may have better luck this time, his wife had said.

To which Paul had replied that he did not for a moment suppose he would.

He nevertheless dropped a line into the billabong.

He felt a tug. He reeled it in.

Curses! It was nothing but a discarded lobster carapace, complete with dangling legs and claws.

Disgusted, he carried it dripping to the office, Mathilde trailing anxiously behind.

Just what exactly do you call this? he demanded of the manager.

Excuse me one moment, said the manager. I'm on the phone.

And so it was that Paul and Mathilde Verlaine heard the following :

Sorry, Dr Yates, said the manager. Now what was that again? Arthur Rimbaud? No, he left on Saturday. Oh, he's coming back? No? He isn't? Fossicking. Of course, but the charge is thirty dollars. Why that's very generous of you Dr Yates. On your Bankcard?. Certainly. But if he rides straight past, and doesn't come in? A note? On the fence. He might not see it. Well, I'll try. What? Is there something else?  A lobster carapace and claws? I'll have a look....Goodbye then, Dr Yates. Drop in on your way home.

Paul Verlaine's face had turned as purple as garnet. His handsome bald head shone with beads of sweat.

Arthur Rimbaud! he muttered.  Here?

Calm yourself, Paul, said Mathilde. It yet may not be him.

He, said Paul Verlaine. It yet may not be he.

Now then, said the manager, what seems to be the problem, Monsieur Verlaine?  By crikey, what's that you have there?