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"There can be no doubt of that," I replied unwittingly, and not at first
observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary
manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my meditations. In
an instant afterward I recollected myself, and my astonishment was
profound.
"Dupin," said I, gravely, "this is beyond my comprehension. I do not
hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses. How
was it possible you should know I was thinking of -----?" Here I paused,
to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought.
--"of Chantilly," said he, "why do you pause? You were remarking to
yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy."
This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections.
Chantilly was a quondam cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming
stage-mad, had attempted the rôle of Xerxes, in Crébillon's tragedy so
called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded for his pains.
"Tell me, for Heaven's sake," I exclaimed, "the method--if method there
is--by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this matter." In
fact I was even more startled than I would have been willing to express.
"
It was the fruiterer," replied my friend, "who brought you to the
conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for
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