“Then, there would be that sound royalist Marquie, once sergeant in the French Guards, now sub-lieutenant in a regiment of the centre line. Favras, of course? the Masked Man? Any particulars to furnish about the Masked Man?”
The traitor looked at the inquirer so fixedly that his eyes seemed to kindle in the dark.
“Why, is it not—“ but he stopped as if fearing to commit a sacrilege if he went farther.
“What’s this? have you a knot in your tongue? Take care of being tongue-tied. Knots in the tongue lead to knots round the neck, and as they are slip ones, they are the worst kind.”
“Well, is it not the King’s b-b-brother?” stammered the other.
“Nonsense, my dear Beausire, it is conceivable that Favras, who wants it believed that he clasps hands with a royal prince in the plot, should give out that the Mask hides the King’s brother, Provence, but you and your mate, Tourcaty, recruiting-sergeants, are men used to measure men by their height in inches and lines, and it is not likely you would be cheated that way.”
“No, it is not likely,” agreed the soldier.
“The King’s brother is five feet three and seven lines,” pursued the magician, “while the Masked Man is nearly five feet six.”
“To a T.,” said the traitor, “that occurred to me; but who can it be if not the King’s brother?”
“Excuse me, I should be proud and happy to teach you something,” retorted Cagliostro: “but I came here to be taught by you.”