And the
lodging offered to Louis was the room in which Charles Darragon had
slept in his wet clothes six months earlier. So small is the world
in which we live, and so narrow are the circles drawn by Fate around
human existence and endeavour.
The cobbler having shown his visitor the room, and pointed out its
advantages, was turning to go when D'Arragon, who was laying aside
his fur coat, seemed to catch his attention, and he paused on the
threshold.
"There is French blood in your veins," he said abruptly.
"Yes--a little."
"So. I thought there must be. You reminded me--it was odd, the way
you laid aside your coat--reminded me of a Frenchman who lodged here
for one night. He was like you, too, in build and face. He was a
spy, if you please--one of the French Emperor's secret police. I
was new at the work then, but still I suspected there was something
wrong about him. I took his boots--a pretext of mending them. I
locked him in. He got out of that window, if you please, without
his boots. He followed me, and learnt much that he was not meant to
know. I have since heard it from others. He did the Emperor a
great service--that man. He saved his life, I think, from
assassination in Dantzig. And he did me an ill turn--but it was my
own carelessness. I thought to make a thaler by lodging him, and he
was tricking me all the while."
"What was his name?" asked D'Arragon.
"Oh--I forgot the name he gave.
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