"What! DAUBINET!" I exclaim, he being the last person I had expected
to see, having, indeed, a letter on my desk from him, dated yesterday
and delivered this morning, to that he was then, at the moment of
writing, and practically therefore for the next forty-eight hours--at
least; so it would be with any ordinary individual--in Edinburgh.
But DAUBINET is not an ordinary individual, and the ordinary laws of
motion to and from any given point do not apply to him. He is a Flying
Frenchman--here, there, and everywhere; especially everywhere. So
mercurial, that he will be in advance of Mercury himself, and having
written a letter in the morning to say he is coming, it is not
unlikely that he will travel by the next train, arrive before the
letter, and then wonder that you weren't prepared to receive him.
Such, in a brief sketch, is _mon ami_ DAUBINET.
[Illustration: "He is a Flying Frenchman."]
"Aha! _me voici!_" he cries, shaking my hand warmly. Then he sings,
waving his hat in his left hand, and still grasping my right with his,
"_Voici le sabre de mon pere!_" which reminiscence of OFFENBACH has
no particular relevancy to anything at the present moment; but it
evidently lets off some of his superfluous steam.
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