They crossed the Neuer Markt together, and went into
that house where the linden grows so close as to obscure
the windows. 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.
It was a false one. He was disguised as a common
soldier—and he was in reality an officer
of the staff. But I know the name of the officer
to whom he wrote his report of his night’s lodging
here—his colleague in the secret police,
it would seem.”
“Ah!” said D’Arragon, busying himself
with his haversack.
“It was De Casimir—a Polish name.
And in the last two days I have heard of him.
He has accepted the Emperor’s amnesty.
He has married a beautiful woman, and is living like
a prince at Cracow. All this since the siege
of Dantzig began. In time of war there is no
moment to lose, eh?”
“And the other? He who slept in this room.
Has he passed through Konigsberg again?”
“No, that he has not. If he had, I should
have seen him. You can believe me, I wanted
to see him. I was at my place on the bridge
all the time—while the French occupied Konigsberg—when
the last of them hurried away a month ago with the
Cossacks close behind. No. I should have
seen him, and known him. He is not on this side
of the Niemen, that fine young gentleman. Now,
what can I do to help you to-morrow?”
“You can help me on the way to Vilna,”
answered D’Arragon.
“You will never get there.”
“I will try,” said the sailor.
