The guard now struck in with a remark in French as to the fineness of the neighboring country. I shrugged my shoulders, and produced my cigar case. French was not very familiar to me, evidently.
"Those beasts of English think their own tongue so fine they are too proud to learn another," said the guard.
I sat quietly, sipping my wine, and reading.
"Well, my dear Michael Pultuski," began the guard.
"For the love of God, call me by that name. My name is Alexis Alexis Dzentzol, now."
"Oh! oh!" laughed the guard; "you've changed your name, you fox; it's like you. Now I am the same that you knew fifteen years ago, Conrad Ferrate—to-day, yesterday, and for life, Conrad Ferrate. Come, lad, tell us your story. How did you get out of that little affair at Warsaw? How they could have trusted you, with your face, with their secrets, I can't for the life of me tell; you look so like a sly knave, don't you, lad?"
The courier, so far from resenting this familiarity, smiled, as if he had been praised.
"My story is soon said. I found, after my betrayal to the police of the secrets of that little conspiracy which you and I joined, that Poland was too hot for me, and my name too well known. I went to France, who values her police, and for a few years was useful to them. But it was dull work; very dull; native talent was more esteemed. I was to be sent on a secret service to Warsaw; I declined for obvious reasons."
"Good! Michael—Alexis; good, [{201}] Alexis. This fox is not to be trapped." And he slapped the courier on the shoulder heartily.
"And," resumed the other, "I resigned. Since then I have travelled as courier with noble families, and I trust I give satisfaction."