“And who the deuce is he; a spy, a smuggler, a villain, or what?”
“As to that, Monsieur,” with a wonder why this man laughed, “I know no more than you. But I do know that for the past month every Englishman has been subjected to this surveillance, and has submitted with more grace than you,” with an oblique glance.
“What! Examined his luggage at the hotel?”
“Yes, Monsieur. It is the order of the minister of police. I know not why.” The natural color was returning to his cheeks.
“This is a fine country, I must say. At least the king should acquaint his visitors with the true cause of this treatment.” In his turn the Englishman resorted to oblique glances.
“The king?” The inspector raised a shoulder and spread his hands. “The king is a paralytic, Monsieur, and has little to say these days.”
“A paralytic? I thought he was called `the handsome monarch'?”
“That was years ago, Monsieur. For three years he has been helpless and bedridden. The archbishop is the real king nowadays. But he meddles not with the police.”
“This is very sad. I suppose it would be impossible for strangers to see him now.”
“An audience?” a sparkle behind the spectacles. “Is your business with the king, Monsieur?”