A few months before the consul was transferred from Schlachtstadt to another post his memory of the departed Karl was revived by a visit from Adlerkreutz.  The general looked grave.

“You remember Unser Karl?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Do you think he was an impostor?”

“As regards his American citizenship, yes!  But I could not say more.”

“So!” said the general.  “A very singular thing has happened,” he added, twirling his mustache.  “The Inspector of police has notified us of the arrival of a Karl Schwartz in this town.  It appears he is the real Karl Schwartz, identified by his sister as the only one.  The other, who was drowned, was an impostor.  Hein?”

“Then you have secured another recruit?” said the consul smilingly.

“No.  For this one has already served his time in Elsass, where he went when he left here as a boy.  But, Donnerwetter, why should that dumb fool take his name?”

“By chance, I fancy.  Then he stupidly stuck to it, and had to take the responsibilities with it.  Don’t you see?” said the consul, pleased with his own cleverness.

“Zo-o!” said the general slowly, in his deepest voice.  But the German exclamation has a variety of significance, according to the inflection, and Adlerkreutz’s ejaculation seemed to contain them all.

*****

It was in Paris, where the consul had lingered on his way to his new post.  He was sitting in a well-known cafe, among whose habitues were several military officers of high rank.  A group of them were gathered round a table near him.  He was idly watching them with an odd recollection of Schlachtstadt in his mind, and as idly glancing from them to the more attractive Boulevard without.  The consul was getting a little tired of soldiers.

Suddenly there was a slight stir in the gesticulating group and a cry of greeting.  The consul looked up mechanically, and then his eyes remained fixed and staring at the newcomer.  For it was the dead Karl; Karl, surely!  Karl!—­his plump figure belted in a French officer’s tunic; his flaxen hair clipped a little closer, but still its fleece showing under his kepi.  Karl, his cheeks more cherubic than ever—­unchanged but for a tiny yellow toy mustache curling up over the corners of his full lips.  Karl, beaming at his companions in his old way, but rattling off French vivacities without the faintest trace of accent.  Could he be mistaken?  Was it some phenomenal resemblance, or had the soul of the German private been transmigrated to the French officer.

The consul hurriedly called the garcon.  “Who is that officer who has just arrived?”

“It is the Captain Christian, of the Intelligence Bureau,” said the waiter, with proud alacrity.  “A famous officer, brave as a rabbit,—­un fier lapin,—­and one of our best clients.  So drole, too, such a farceur and mimic.  M’sieur would be ravished to hear his imitations.”